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An Illustrated Monthly 

Vol. LIV 

Xondon : 





-J- r 

ACROSTICS * « 67,112,303,358,47*624 

ACTING DUCHESS, THE Morley Roberts 311 

Illustrations by Lewis Baumer. 


Illustrations by J. A. Shepherd. 

"ANIMALLOYS" .. AUck P. F. RiUkie. 306 

Illustrations from Drawings. 


Illustrations by H. M. Batcman, 

AWAKENING OF JOHN WALTERS, THE . . . / . . " Sapper:- 419 

I lcj*i&;noi»« by Dudley Tennant. 

BATTLESHIP, LIFE ON A. I.— Ready for Action. II.— Torpedoed on the Majestic. 

Illustrations by C. M. Pat I day and E. Prater. E. Ashmead-BartleU. 47 1, 563 

BEREGUISSE! .. .. Claude Roland-. 291 

Illustrations by K. P. Kinsclla, 

BLIND CHANCE . . . . Fred M. White. 244 

Illustrations by G. H. Evison. 

BLOOD AND IRON. A Play in One Act Perley Poore Sheehan and Robert H. Davis. 359 

Illustrations by Steven Spurrier. 

*• BROUGHT DOWN IN FLAMES " F.Britten Austin. 596 

Illustrations by Dudley Tennant. 

CATS AND DOGS Barry Pain. 86 

• Illustrations by Gw E. Studdy. 


Illustrations from Drawings. 

CLERICAL ERRORS ". F. Bay ford Harrison. 42? 

Illustrations by H. K. Elcock. 

CLOTHES AND THE MAN, THE Mabel Loder Stearns. 403 

Illustrations by Frank Wright. 

COMFORTS FOR THE TROOPS .. May Edginton. 480 

Illustrations by Treyer Evans. 


Illustrations from Old Prints. * 

CONVERT, THE «> W.W.Jacobs. 158 

Illustrations by Will Owen. 

CURIOSITIES 96,224,320,416,512,648 

Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations by Dudley Tennant. 


DRESS IN WAR-TIME.. SIMPLICITY OF. How to Make the Best of It . . Mary O. Kennedy. 625 

Illustrations from Photographs. 

DUCKS v. FROGS .. J . A. Shepherd. 304 

Illustrations from Drawings. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 

ESCAPING, THE FINE ART OF. Has It Declined ? Tighe Hopkins. 409 

Illustrations l»y G. Henry Kvison. 

FAMOUS MEN I HAVE MET, SOME E. Ashmead-BartleU. 332 

Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustration* from Photographs. 

FOR GREATER ITALY ! F. Britten Austin. 295 

Illustrations from Photographs and Drawings. 

FORTY-EIGHT HOURS Edxvard Cecil. 503 

Illustrations by Sterne Steven*. 

HIS LAST BOW. The War Service of Sherlock Holmes . . f .. A. Conan Doyle. 227 

Illustrations by A. Gilbert. 

HOW HE GOT HIS STRIPES J .V .. 1% 7. .. U^SW^W^I^KWIMl Shepherd. 68 



INEXPLICABLE , „ . ., L.G.Moberly. 572 

Illustration*. by Dudley Tennant. 

INSURING OF MRS. HARRIGAN, THE James Francis Thvyer. 496 

Illustrations by Frank Wright 

JACKIE PLAY-ALONE Roland Pertwee. 545 

Illustrations by Stanley Davis. 

JEEVES AND THE HARD-BOILED EGG . . '. P.G. Wodehouse. 1 13 

Illustrations by Alfred Leete. ' 


Illustrations by Alfred Leete. 

JOB, THE •. May Edginton. 554 

Illustrations by Treyer Evans. 

KILL OR CURE .. N Laurence Housman. 633 

Illustrations by W. Heath Robinson. 

KING LION'S ADVICE .. .. 7. W.J.L.KiM. 4" 

Illustrations by J. A. Shepherd. 

LATEST RAID, THE Stephen Mckmna. 536 

Illustrations by H. M. Bateman. 

LIGHTHOUSE, THE Austin Pliilips. 70 

Illustrations by G. Henry Evison. 

44 LION-KINGS." The Romance of the Pezon Family, the Chief Originators of Modern Animal-Training. 284 
Illustrations from Photographs. k 

LTTTLE DINNER FOR TWO, A (Not to Spenk of the Dog !) . . ; /. A. Sheplierd. 642 

XODGE RIGHT, IS SIR OLIVER ? "Yes" .. t. Cotton Doyle. 49 

Illustrations from Photographs. M No " . . . . . . . . . . . . Edward Clodd. 52 . 

LORD WINTON'S ADVENTURE Melville Davisson Post, 323 

Illustrations by A. Gilbert. 

LOST BUTTON, THE . . . . . . Janus Francis Dwyer. 308 

Illustrations from Drawings by Frank Wright. 

MAGIC OF MUHAMMED DIN, THE * F. Britten Austin. 99 

Illustrations by W. Reynolds and G. H. Evison. , 

MAN WHO NEVER DID RIGHT, THE . . Hylton Cleaver. 432 

Illustrations by John K. Sutcliffe, 


Illustrations by G. L. Stampa. 

MISS PETTS GRAND CHANCE .. .. t Keble BowaU, 463 

Illustrations by G E. Studdy. 


The Story of thb Eel Edwin Bturktnan. 78 

The Humours of Australian Politics P. J. Bennett. 80 

How to Make a Model Submarine Leonard S. Bastin. 82 

A Forerunner of the Zeppelin 83 

A Lamp that Sings 84 

A Competition of Pet-Stories Dr. Gerda B. Jacobi. 395 

When is a Man Drunk ? . . . . Edwin F. Bowers, M.D. 398 

Unique Dickens Discoveries C. Van Noorden. 400 

Illustrations from Drawings, Photograph*, and Facsimiles. 

MYSTERY OF SALLY, THE Charles Sloan Reid. 55 

Illustrations by Thomas Henry. 

"OFF AND ON" .. ' Elizabeth Asquith. 644 

.Illustration* by Lewis Baumer. 


Illustrations by W. Heath Robinson. 

HER SIDE, THE F. Britten Austin. 3 

Illustrations by Stanley Davis. 

fcPLEXTTIES Henry E. Dudeney. 85, 181, 310, 415, 51 1, 624 

Illustrations from Diagrams. r- 

ANO, HOW TO PLAY THE, AND HOW NOT TO Mark Hambourg. 253 

Illustrations from Drawings, Facsimiles, and a Photograph. 

LAIN GERMAN'* Perceval Gibbon. 515 

Illustrations by G. Henry Evison. 

AIN MAN, A -. '. .„ J. SachviUe Martin. 450 

Illustrations by C M, Padday, R.O.I. 

TNT OF DETAIL, A r Xi-\i •• "" Original from mm «. Sa pper» 39 

Illustrations by Warwick Reynolds. U N I V ERSI T Y F Ml C H IG A N 

iv. INDEX. 



Illustrations from Photographs. , 

Illustrations from Photographs. * 


Illustrations from Facsimiles. 


* Illustrations by G. Henry Evison. 
PROBLEM CLUB, THE. L— The Giraffe Problem Barry Pain. 589 

Illustrations by A. Gatrett. 


Illustrations from Diagrams. 

RED CROSS MAGAZINES Frederick Dolman. 57 

Illustrations from Drawings. / . " 

REYNOLDS GROUP, THE Roland Pertwee. 122 

Illustrations by E. S. Hodgson. 

ROSE OF DAWN, THE Ethel M. Dell* 187 

Illustrations by E. P. Kinsella. 


1 1 Initiations from Photographs, 
RUBBER, THE Hylton Cleaver. 17 

Illustrations by Arch Webb. 

SAUCEPAN, THE J Lynn Doyle. 456 

Illustrations by Thomas Henry. 


Illustrations by Tom Peddie. 

SELLING UP A SULTAN Walter B. Harris. 441 " 

Illustrations by W. H. Holloway and from Photographs by the Author. 


Illustrations from Facsimiles. 

SHERLOCK HOLMES, THE WAR SERVICE OF. His Last Bow .. .. A. Conan Doyle. 227 

Illustrations by A*. Gilbert. 

SUBSTITUTE,* THE W. W. Jacohs. 613 

Illustrations by Will Owen. 


Illustrations from Photographs*. 

TALE, THE , Joseph Conrad. 34 

Illustrations by C. M. Padday, R.O.I. 

TANGRAMS, WAR , . . . Henry E. Dudeney. 407 

Illustrations from Diagram*. 

"TANKS," THE ♦ • • • Colonel E. D. Swinlon. 270 

Illustrations from a Painting, Photograph, et< . 


Illustrations by Alfred Leete. 

TEMPORARY HEIR, THE John Fleming Wilson. 172,257 

Illustrations by Warwick Reynold*. 

THERE'S A SILVER LINING May Edginion. 146 

Illustrations by G. E. Studdy. 

THEY COME BACK F. Britten Austin. 366 

Illustrations by G. Henry Evison. 

TREE, SIR HERBERT. Stories About Him Percy Burton. 49$ 

Illustrations by C E. Brock. 

VALOUR, WHAT IS THE GREATEST DEED OF ? C. J. Cutcliffe Hyne, Tighe Hopkins, and H. B. 

Illustrations trom Drawings. Marriott- Watson. 582 



Illustrations from Photographs. 
WAR- WORKERS May Edginton. 386 

Illustrations by Treyer Evans. 

WASTREL, THE James Langston. 278 

Illustrations by Frank Wright. 

ZINKLEFOOT'S FIND James Francis Dwyer. 251 

Illustrations by Frank Wright. 








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f^x^-M^T Origin al from 

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Pf\noli i Original from 


... . , : 

■ ■ - ■ 


■ V 




: , fell sideways." Original from 



Vol. 54. 

JULY, 1917. 

No. 319. 

The Other Side. 


Illustrated by F. Stanley Davis. 

DEEP silence brocded oyer 
No. 3 Ward, Officers. It was 
late afternoon in October, but 
the room was as yet un- 
illumijied from within. The 
two long lines of windows 
that confronted one another 
— the waTcfwas a temporary hut-building — did 
so in a contrast of lights, the eastern windows, 
backed by grey obscurity, reflecting broken 
beams of. the glory of gold and purple and 
fiery red that streamed in from the west. 
The two lines of beds, the indistinct greys and 
whites of the ward, were delicately touched 
by the warm glow where they rose into its 
radiance. It picked out the short curves of 
the turned- back sheet, humped with the 
recumbent form beneath, in an imponderable 
caress upon the broken humanity that lay, 
desperately finite, under the splendour that 
knows no final setting. A mingled odour of 
disinfectant and anaesthetic hung in the air, 
explanatory of the dead quiet, of the heavy 
breathing that was part of the silence. This 
was a ward of the severely wounded, recently 
arrived. From the utmost climax of human 
effort, thunderous to the ear, dreadful to the 
eye, maddening to the soul, whether it 
exulted triumphant over the menace of 
instant extinction or shrank appalled and 
paralyzed in the horror of brutal death, 
from the fierce superiority of the unscathed 
killer, from the sudden shock, these men had 
come, many of them unconsciously, by train 
and ship and train and car, to the white-and- 
green hospital on the empty moorland, to the 

Vol. li*. — 1. Copyright, 1917, by 

hushed, screened peace of the bed-ranked 

At the farther end of the ward a Medical 
Officer stood in murmured conversation with 
a Sister. He was outlined black against the 
radiance of the sunset, but on her the glow 
fell fully illuminant, rosy upon the starched 
whiteness of the coif and apron, touching the 
pale face into faint colour. Her large, serious 
eyes rested upon him, attentive to his in- 
structions, glanced away to the patient in 
the end bed as he spoke. 

" Number Ten must be very carefully 
watched, Sister," he said, the little smile upon 
his face, indicative only of his confidence in 
the quiet young woman before him, in no 
way minimizing the gravity of his words. 
" I am afraid we are going to have a very 
hard fight for him. But we' mustn't let him 
slip through our fingers. We'll keep him on 
this side if we can." 

She assented with a nod of the head and 
a long, deep breath that was clearly a sigh. 
He scrutinized her sharply. 

{i You have something on your mind, 
Sister. No bad news, I hope ? " His voice 
was very kind. "Captain Hershaw is all 
right ? " The Sister's engagement was gener- 
ally known in the hospital. 

The large eyes opened, revealing a mute, 
long-suffered anxiety. 

" It is more than a week since I heard 
from him, doctor. I am afraid— horribly 
afraid," she said, in a low voice. " This 
terrible fighting h3l fron 

"The F ! ^|^@fWNlmfSA^ U P durin S 

F. Britten Austin. 


active operations, Sister. You must not be 
prematurely anxious. A week: is not very 
long. You must believe in his luck, l^e 
has had a charmed life so far." The M.CX's 
kindly smile emphasized his reassuring tone. 
" He has — he has. And life always seems 
so — so vivid in him. 1 cannot imagine him " 
— her voice sank almost to inaudibility — 

"dead." * ^ 

" Don't ! " He smiled, full of Sympathy. 
" Believe in his star." His tone changed to 
the professional. "Would you like to go 
off duty, Sister ? I will speak to the matron. 
A car is going into town. Go and look at the 

" No — no, doctor, thank you very much. 
I won't leave my dear boys here. Poor lads ! 
it does me good to fight for them — almost as 
if " She stopped, turned away. 

" Very well, Sister. Send for me if any 
change occurs in Number Ten." 

The M.O. walked down the ward, throwing 
little glances at the silent patients, and 

For some little time the Sister busied her- 
self noiselessly. Then Number Ten stirred 
uneasily in his bed- 

" Sister ! " he called, in a faint voice. 

She was by his side in an instant. 

" A drink, please ! " 

She gave it to him, looked down on the 
young, strongly-masculine features as he 
drank, with an interest that was subtly, un- 
consciously, more than professional. From 
the moment of his arrival in the ward — even 
in his silences — Number Ten had been a 
personality. Though powerless in bed, 
there was a curious hint of brute force in 

" Now you must go to sleep again, 
Captain Layering," she said, smoothing his 
pillow. ' 

" I can% Sister." His eyes closed and 
opened again in a spasm of pain. " I — I 
want to feel someone near me " — his voice 
was very weak — ".to get hold of life again. 
Sister— sit be'side me^-for a moment, please." 

She glanced at him irresolutely, smoothed 
the hair from his hot forehead with a cool 
hand, and then acceded to his request, seated 
herself on the chair by the bed. 

" But you mustn't talk," she warned him. 

" I won't, Sister.'" He was quiet for a 
moment. " Sister, I'm very bad, I know — 
but I'm not going to die ! I won't die — 
1 won't let myself die ! " Despite his weak- 
ness, there was intense will-power in his tone. 

" Hush, hush ! Of course you are not 
going to die." Involuntarily she laid her 

hand upon the bed, as if to transfuse some of 
her own life-force into him. 

He reached out a hand, grasped hers, re- 
sisted her attempt at withdrawal. 

" Please — please ! " he murmured. " I 

want to hold on to life — there's so much " 

His eyes closed sleepily. " I feel life -flowing 
into me," he said. The grip upon her hand 
was tight. 

For a long time she sat thus, her hand 
clasped in his. Number Ten slept, with 
heavy breathing. It seemed to her that his 
fever diminished. She feared to withdi$w 
herself lest she should awaken him. The 
long ward was deathly still. 

Presently there was a noise of footsteps. 
An orderly approached, changing his gait 
to a clumsy tip-toe in obedience to her 

" A telegram for you, Sister," he said. 

She glanced at the patient, essayed to 
release her hand. It was firmly held in the 
sleeper's grasp. 

" Open the telegram, Thomson," she said, 
in a whisper. 

The orderly obeyed, handed her the drab 
piece of paper. 

She took it, glanced at it, nodded a speech- 
less dismissal to the orderly. 

" The War Office reports that Ronald is 
missing ; believed killed. — Hershaw." 

The words branded themselves into her 
brain as she sat there fixed, immobile. She 
could hear them in the wailing cry of the 
widowed mother who had written the. tele- 
gram, but her own voice seemed to her for 
ever dumb, never to break this crushing 
silence. She stared — with dry eyes— straight 
before her. The obsequial lights of the de- 
parted sun, framed by the window opposite, 
were extinguished one after another. She 
did not stir, was unconscious that her hand 
was still in the grasp of the wounded man. 
44 The War Office reports "... It was like 
staring at a high closed door. 

An immeasurable time passed before an 
orderly entered, switched on the electric 
light, drew the blinds. She roused herself, 
found the grip upon her hand relaxed. She 
rose ; with light lips and burning eyes, went 
about her duties. 

That evening it was by an effort of will, 
sternly administered, that she sat at table 
in the Sisters' mess-room. She scarcely ate, 
was deaf to the feminine chatter around her. 
One of the Sisters, a notorious flirt, joked 
her upon her lover-like posture with Number 
Ten. The orderly had evidently talked. 
Sister Brai thwaite did net; reply. As soon as 



possible she fled to her little, matrtv boarded expression. She kissed it passionately, 

euhicle. By her bedside was a photograph of " Ronald ! Ronald ! "—tin- loved name came 

ft dean-featured younp man, with intellectual from the depths A her. 1 he merciful tears 

eyes, more than ordinarily vivid in their fell foflfl T VErtW ll Dr , 'fflH!fllGAN 


She slept with a packet of letters pressed 
tightly to her warm body. 

She heard her name called : " Mary ! 
Mary ! " in a startlingly familiar voice. She 
heard herself reply: " Ronald ! " It was 
very dark. Where was she ? Ah, by the 
stream ! It seemed queerly natural that she 
should be by that stream.. It was not so 
dark after all — only twilight. Twilight, with 
dark woods coming down to the stream. Her 
name was called again, " Mary ! Mary ! " her 
lover's voice, impatient. Again she heard 
herself reply : " Ronald ! Where are you ? " 
" Here, dear ! On the other side ! You 
must cross the stream/' 

Of course ! She must cross the stream — 
that was quite natural — and there was a 
little footbridge, offering passage. She went 
over, not daring to look down. On the other 
side she waited. He was not yet visible. 
She wondered what suit he would be wearing, 
wondered why she wondered. He came to- 
wards her, his clothes curiously more con- 
spicuous than his face. He was clad in his 
old tweed suit, and mysteriously it seemed 
odd to her. Yet what else should he be 
wearing ? It was the suit he always wore 
when out for a walk. She glanced at her own 
clothes with a subtle sense of strangeness, 
yet it was her old summer frock she wore. 
This little puzzle about clpthes played itself 
out in cosmic depths of her, receded or was 
solved, vanished. Her lover was standing 
at her side, enfolded her. 

" Mary ! 1 have been so anxious about 
you ! " 

She looked up to eyes that seemed like 
stars in the twilight. 

" I, too, Ronald — I have been worrying 
about you." There was a sense of some- 
thing terrible in the background, imminent, 
and yet she felt it had been with her for a 
long time. It ceased suddenly. " But every- 
thing's all right now — I have found you." 

A little glimmering of something in the 
depths of her asked why she said that, 
seemed to repeat doubtfully : " found you " 
in a long, eternally re-echoing voice. She 
felt eerie. It was as though her existence 
was a duplicate imperfectly combined, like 
the double vision, half running into each 
other, of badly-adjusted binoculars. 

" I am so glad you are safe, dear," she heard 
herself say. 

" Let us go and hear the nightingales," he 
said, in the voice so ringingly his own. He 
drew her along the p^th in the twilight, his 
arm about her waist. 

Nightingales ? Now ? Of course ! Why 
not ? The season was early June — what was 
the silly half-thought submerged beyond the 
horizon of her mind ? 

She allowed hferself to be impelled by the 
pressure of his arm. Closely linked, they 
followed the tenebrous path by the wood, 
climbed skirting its dark edge. Her lover 
talked copiously and interestingly as he 
always did, on a multitude of subjects. He 
was humorous, satirical, rhapsodic, earnestly 
eloquent, by turns. How like him it was ! 
She admired the wide range of his mind. 
Much more easily than usual — she realized 
it in a little glow of self-flattery — she com- 
prehended him all through a long and intricate 
disquisition. Yet lurking somewhere in her 
dream-consciousness was the feeling that 
there was an all-important topic on which 
he did not touch. A part of her tried to 
identify that topic, and failed. The failure 
worried her. He talked of travel, of a trip 
into Germany through the Black Forest, 
across Lake Constance into Austria and 
Tyrol. . Of course ! That was to be their 
honeymoon tour. In the days before — before 
what ? — before something — they had often 
talked about it. They were not even officially 
"engaged then — she remembered how they 
used to laugh together over these distant 
projects that were treated as imminent facts. 
They had even had a little quarrel over the 
choice of two alternative stopping-places. . . . 
She came back to his voice. 

" Listen ! " he said. " Listen ! " 

A nightingale was singing with super- 
natural power. Loud, thrillingly resonant 
under the stars that now powdered the sky, 
the song welled out to them. Its burden, 
mysteriously comprehended by -them to 
esoteric depths, was sorrow — the sorrow of 
all the world, here completely expressed, 
transmuted into so strange a beauty that the 
listener held his breath. The deep sobs, 
shudderingly repeated, that threw off the 
magic runs of crystal sound., pervaded 
the atmosphere about them with a mystic 
spell, evoked an immense pity in them. They 
could have wept. Suddenly they were con- 
scious of a perfidy in this magically-induced 
compassion — a danger common to both, _ 
implied in it, imminent. He flung his arms 
about her to protect her, shielding her from it, 

41 You are mine, dearest ! — mine 1— only 
mine ! " 

His words went ringing through the stars, 
passed out of hearing, but were not silenced. 
She felt kisses oi: intense fervour upon her 
mouth - responded.. 



" I am ! " she cried. Her words also rolled 
away endlessly, as though permuted into 
imperishable brass. " I am yours alorifc ! " 

She half-woke in the feeling of a near 
presence, then sank again into a sleep that 
remembers not its dreams. 

She awoke in the morning obsessed by the 
baffling sense of an occurrence she could not 
recall. Then the memory, the realization of 
her loss flooded in on her — harshly pre- 
dominant in those first empty moments as 
yet unlinked to the distractions of the day. 
She wept, uncontrollable tears. " Ronald ! 
Ronald ! " she cried, in a low voice, her face 
buried in the soft pillow. Then she remem- 
bered. Her tears were checked. The details 
of her dream, opened one by one, stirred in 
her a curious, subtle fear she felt unworthy 
of her. The vividness of it awoke an atavistic 
emotion, the shrinking reaction of primitive 
humanity from the influence of those dead to 
this world. Yet a more recent growth in her 
tried to glory in the contact — impelled by an 
obscure sentiment of duty. " I do love you, 
Ronald ! " she murmured again to the pillow. 
" I am yours alone ! " The saying of the 
words seemed to merge her dream-life into 
unison with thfe actual. 

There was much to do in the long, freshly- 
aerated ward that morning. As one by one 
each bed had its sheets turned back, exposing 
the gashed, perforated, or fractured bodies of 
men who winced with pain, the crude other 
side of war was laid bare. Into strong relief, 
too, was thrown the complementary phase of 
the other side of the vast catastrophe where 
the noblest are proudly conscious of the 
wounds they inflict. With tender care, the 
utmost solicitude not to cause one unnecessary 
pang of suffering, the khaki-clad doctors, the 
% grey-uniformed, white-coifed and aproned 
nurses, laboured to save and heal. 

Sister Braithwaite thrust herself utterly 
into her daily task of dressing wounds, of 
soothing pain, of bringing a cheerful smile 
on to the face of the sufferer. So doing, she 
eluded for quite long periods the obsession 
which haunted her. 

Number Ten was once more the focus of 
interest in the ward. His condition had 
grown worse during the night. To-day he 
was in a dangerous fever. The doctor was 
grave. Sister Braithwaite watched over him 
with unremitting care, found herself passion- 
ately fighting off death. In the early after- 
noon the crisis passed. He woke from a quiet 
sleep, looked up to the Sister standing by 
his bed. 

" You have saved me, Sister," he said, in 
a weak voice. " I could feel it " 

" Hush, Captain Lavering. Go to sleep. 
We are all trying to get you well." 

" It was you/' he said, faintly, as his eyes 
closed once more. 

The silence of the ward was suddenly 
broken by a merry peal of bells floating in 
through the open windows. In the little 
village church, tucked away in a near-by 
hollow of the moor, a wedding was being 
solemnized. Sudden tears, a strange emotion, 
surgfed up in Sister Braithwaite. 

A case that had made good progress was 
removed from the ward, a newly-arrived, 
severely wounded man brought in. 

" If only it were Ronald ! " The neat, 
prim figure of the Sister, supervising the 
orderlies busy lifting the casualty into the 
bed, gave no indication of the desperate 
agonized prayer. 

She dreamed. 

" Mine at last, my beloved — really mine ! " 
The familiar voice thrilled through her, very 
close, over her head. 

" Yours ! Always yours ! " she heard her- 
self murmur. ^ 

She took her head from the darkness that 
obscured her vision — it was his coat against 
which she had been nestling ; she saw the 
little white touzled-up hairs of the rough 
tweed fere her gaze stretched to a longer focus. 
She looked to his face, met his vivid eyes — 
looked round at her surroundings.. 

They were alone in the first-class compart- 
ment of a railway train that rocked and 
roared. His lips were pressed on hers. " The 
great day, dearest ! " he said. Her mind 
leaped to the allusion. Their wedding-day ! 
They had been married that morning — she 
could hear still the joyous peal of bells — were 
going away on their honeymoon. The tweed 
suit he wore was quite new — something 1 kc 
the old. She was in a travelling-dress that Le 
had already admired. Of course ! It all 
came back to her as if she had just awakered 
from a little sleep. 

The train rushed on. She lived through 
all the cinematograph - like pictures of the 
journey. A halt and descent — little anxieties 
about the luggage — then, after an interlude 
which was vague, another train, another long 
journey — all was a continuous long experience. 
She thrilled at a surreptitious squeeze of his 
hand — ah, yes, there were other people in the 
carriage now — rounded her lips at him in a 
provoking similitude of a kiss, daringly pro- 
fiting by E^Ttnartention'Jml their fellow- 



travellers. A yearning for him — induced by 
tlic naughty little act — filled her breast, per- 
sisted. There was bustle, confusion. They 
were in a throng of travellers who hurried. 
Hurry ! They must not lose the boat ! It 
lay there before them, only its upper works 
seen, its two great funnels leaning backward, 
belching black smoke. The black smoke 
spread over the sky. It was night. They 
were on board the boat, cradled in an easy 
motion, sensible of the throb of the engines. 
On and on they journeyed, linked in a very 
close communion of eyes that spoke, of hands 
. that squeezed each other. She tasted a 
thousand little kindnesses. How good he 
was ! How loving ! 

And still the journey went on. Yet more 
trains. She must have slept. She woke to a 
great city filled with innumerable inhabitants, 
all very busy. They spoke a strange language 
very rapidly to one another. She could not 
understand a word. But he, Ronald, under- 
stood — conversed with them in their foreign 
tongue. How clever he was ! There was 
music somewhere — from a lighted caji that 
flooded a damp street with radiance. 

She was bewildered in a variety of new and 
strangjkimpressions, leaned on him, soul and 
body. Tie led her, sure of himself. Her love 
for him seemed to increase at this revelation 
of his unfailing self-reliance. Yet she knew 
that she loved him with all her being, had 
always loved him so. 

" And how do you like Brussels, dearest ? " 
his ringing voice asked. Brussels ? Of 
course ! As though a veil had fallen from 
her eyes she saw that they were in the middle 
of the Grand' Place, lights playing, Rem- 
brandtesque, on the carved stone- work of the 
ancient buildings. She recognized it at once 
— how accurate the picture postcards had 
been ! Brussels — the honeymoon journey ! 
She thrilled with happiness, leaning on his 
strong arm. 

The dream continued. . . . 

All through the next day its vividness 
haunted her. At times she had to will her- 
self to live in the actual world. She scarcely 
spoke. The Medical Officer in charge of her 
ward stopped her, asked her if she were all 
nght, his eyes searching her face. He sym- 
pathized with her on her loss so kindly and 
gently that she loved him for it. 

Number Ten was still the great pre- 
occupation. He claimed incessant care. 
But he was in the faint beginnings of a good 
progress. Strangely, it seemed that when 
she tended him there was a conflict in some 

obscure part of her. There seemed t 
inarticulate voice, immensely remote, 
minatory, not explicit. Captain I 
•insisted that she was his rescuer, 1 
more eloquent than his words. It m 
feel awkward, curiously shame-face 
reiteration threw her out of that 
armoured impersonal professional rel 
the patient, which alone makes cor 
hospital work possible. She masked 
with a gentle severity. When he si 
was unreasonably glad. But she liked 
him. The contact with actual lift 
stricken though it was, obliterated 1 
extent the haunting memory of that 
world from which she shrank, 

She forced herself to live only in tl 
quiet, bright ward ; in the chattering 
of the Sisters' mess-room when off du 

Her dream linked itself on to its pred 
The honeymoon was finished. She 
back down a long vista of travel, of 
days. She had really lived through a 
experiences. She picked them one 
from her memory like rare pieces 
jewel-case, contemplated them with a 
Each expanded into a picture. The d* 
had walked together down the rugge 
of the tiny valley imprisoned in the i 
hills, a fierce little stream outpacing t 
it dashed against great boulders, at 
come upon a sunny meadow where c 
garlanded with flowers laughed and 
in a ring ; a wonderful blue lake on 
shores were yellow houses with red ro< 
ancient cypresses on a greensward m 
water's edge — the melancholy reiterate 
of a church bell beat like a pulse throu 
scene ; an old, old town with gabled 
leaning in close confidence, rich carving 
grotesque ; in all was a pervading pea( 
quiet life that thrives sleepy with wel 
from year to year ; over all was the c 
of mutual love through which they had 
the world. 

Another memory came to her— early 
ing in the Alps, a sea of wild narcissi all 
them, and, beyond, the great white 
glittering in the sun of a blue sky. The] 
on and on, up and up. The flowers we 
behind — and she remembered she k 
gretted leaving them, had grudged the 
to climb for the sake of climbing-^but I 
insisted. They stood at last higl 
dazzlingly white snowfields stretching 
on every side, a summer sun beating hot 
them. The air was rarefied, induced ix^ 


a subtle ecstasy as they stood marvelling at 
the brilliant austere beauty of the great peaks 
lifting themselves into the sky, their robes 
slipping from their rocky shoulders in a 
miracle of purity. He encircled her waist with 
his arm, spoke in the voice that stirred 
mysterious depths in her. 

"' Dearest," he said. " Not a flower, but 
snow, is the true emblem of love, ' White as 
the essential soul, how soon on the lower 
levels it is defiled, disappears ! Bdt on the 
heights it endures stainless for ever, no matter 
how hot the kiss of the sun." 

And she had kissed him, speechlessly. 
But all this was past. She was at home 
now, waiting for him to come back from his 
work. Their home, the home they had 
always planned, was all around her. The 
very pieces 'of furniture they had regarded in 
shop windows with longing eyes, had calcu- 
lated the cost of, were there. That quaint 
table in the centre of the room, half-covered 
with the embroidered open-work white linen 
laid for tea — how covetously they had once 
looked on it ! How depressed they had been 
at the dealer's price ! But it was there, after 
all. Ronald had bought it, he who never 
rested until he attained his heart's desire. 
How purposeful he was ! How strong ! How 
loving-kind ! She closed her eyes, leaned 
back in a swimming ecstasy of love. 

There he was ! She heard his footstep 
at the other side of the door. He entered, 
was radiant, enfolded her in that wonderful 
embrace where she was a surrendered thing. 
He had a little parcel, handed it to her. 
Tremblingly she opened it, certain of delight. 
It was a framed enlargement of a photograph 
they had taken that morning in the high 
Alps. With a little happy cry she gazed once 
more on the long smooth slopes of snow, 
stretching up to the dark-patched peaks. 
Once more his arm encircled her, his deep 
voice spoke. 

" So shall we live, darling, always — ever 
upon the heights ! " 

She lay awake in her b^d, ere it was day, 

a understood in a great tremulous awe. 

1 her dreams she and Ronald were living 

f rcisely the life they would have lived had 

t re been no war. The honeymoon — their 

V ne — all would have been accomplished ere 

t i. Had there been no war ! Exactly as 

s had dreamed they would have travelled 

t ether — his arm would have enfolded her 

- i a long, long happiness they would have 

J d. She burst into a passion of tears, stifled 

r ••he pillows. Then she turned her head, 

wondering, feeling as if her heart had stopped. 
Would this dream continue ? Was it — in 
some mysterious way — real ? Her lips moved 
in a prayer, but she scarcely knew what she 

She was glad to escape into the busy 
actual life of the ward, into the cold light 
of day. 

From now onwards her life definitely 
assumed this double phase. 

In the hospital slie was the Sister Braith- 
waite that all had known, diligent, bravely 
smiling, conscientious in her duty. Those 
about her remarked only that there was 
sometimes a curious stillness in her mien, 
spoke pityingly among themselves of the sad 
loss of her soldier lover. But death in a 
hospital is no unfamiliar catastrophe, and 
none lingered on the topic. There was much 
to do, a continual stream of new arrivals 
from the distant conflict, the doubtful fate of 
many of those already long suffering. There 
were deaths, recoveries, operations of pro- 
fessional interest. 

Number Ten went slowly but steadily 
towards health. Sister Braithwaite deliber- 
ately avoided all contact with him save the 
professional. When she chatted with a 
patient in the ward it was not with him. 
His gaze was reproachful, and she would not 
see it. Sometimes when she approached him 
he would, half-jokingly, reiterate that she 
had saved him. She would not hear. A 
strange sense of insecurity disturbed her in 
his presence. She half-divined that he nursed 
a project. She fled the glance of the 
steady, resolute eyes in the strong face. 
When at last he had made such progress that 
he could be removed to a convalescent ward 
she was glad at his departure. 

At night she passed into another world. 
There was no war in that life — never had 
been war. From dream to dream she lived 
through a continuous existence — the wife of 
Ronald. It was all vividly real. It was the 
life they would have led — it played itself out 
now in what to her day-time consciousness 
was a realm of shadows. Not always did 
she dream, or rather not always did her 
consciousness register the events through 
which she passed. But later dreams had 
dream-memories in them, and theTecord had 
no gaps. Time passed in that dream-world 
without relation to the terrestrial days. In 
one night she frequently lived through long 
periods. He was always kind to her, always 
loving. She, too, loved him passionately, 
with all her soul. 

But iUNftd feytimeFMC!WIS.fehihrank from 



that shadow-life. She was afraid — mysteri- 
ously, primitively afraid. \ She could not 
mourn as she would have liked to mourn. 
Sometimes she asked herself whether she 
was not ceasing to love her dead affianced. 
She tried to evoke his image — and ofcen, to 
her distress, succeeded not. The strongly- 
masculine features of Number Ten, Captain 
Lavering, rose before her mental vision, would 
not be banished. Then she despised herself 
bitterly. In remorse, she willed herself for- 
ward to the night, bade herself not shrink, 
and when the hour came gave herself to the 
darkness tremulously, like a slave of the 
harem who goes into the chamber of her lord. 
The^portal passed^she was happy, completely 
happy — as happy as she would have been the 
wife of Ronald in the dainty little home that 
never could be other than the home of her 

With strange, almost terrifying, complete- 
ness the shadow-life evolved. The house she 
lived in she knew in all its details, had its 
rooms that she preferred, views from its 
windows that she loved or veiled. The 
presence of her husband was a reality that 
filled it. She knew his footstep, heard his 
voice. (It rang often in her ears when her 
eyes unclosed in the little matchboarded 
cubicle suddenly unfamiliar.) They had long, 
long conversations together — wonderful little 
intedudes where their always underlying love 
blossomed into delicate flower. She saw his 
face clearly, saw that it was changing slightly, 
growing more set, less bDyish. There were 
difficulties — the difficulties of real life — to be 
encountered. An anguished struggle with 
bills and finances that would not meet wrung 
her soul all one night. She pledged herself to 
such brave economies ! But the difficulties 
were overcome, the memory of them lost in 
the embrace of her lover. Rarely, rarely was 
she unhappy until she woke. 

And day by day, not keeping pace with 
her other life, her life of work in the hospital 
went on. Week linked into week, month 
into month. The great open moors around 
changed their hue, were often shrouded in 
mist. In December the first frosts glassed 
the pools. Many were the patients who had 
come and gone. The little cemetery under 
the hill was fuller. Other sufferers were more 
fortunate. Caf tain Lavering was fully con- 
valescent, nearing his discharge. She saw 
him often at a distance, avoided him when 
4ie tried to approach her. She could not have 
explained why, even to herself. Yet, some- 
where, deep down in her, the virility of his 
aspect set a chord vibrating. She was alwa^J|V 

extremely, almost painfully, cons 
propinquity. For many weeks tt 
exchanged a word. 

There came a night wonderfu 
others. She thrilled with a si 
ecstasy, drawn from deep springs, 
quiet, speechless ecstasy of some 
fulfilment. She was filled with a gi 
ness that welled up and overflo 
source. There was something wd 
her heart. She looked down and 
was a new-born babe. She was in I 
in a great surge of deeply-flowir 
understood. She was a mother — 
of Ronald's child ! She could hai 
joy that lacked expression. I 
stroked thin silky hair on a tiny I 

Suddenly she was aware that I 
looking down on her. She yearned 
but as she did so she was consciol 
allegiance was divided. Not all 
heretofore, reached cut to him, i 
his. There was a dumb insistent c 
breast. She snvled to disguise it. 

But it seemed that he unders 
face was troubled, the viv4d eyes n 
He leaned over her. 

" Detaest," he said. " I cannot 
The child must never be more than 
of our love. You must be mir 
mine. Pronvsg me that you will 
mine alone ! " 

His jealousy flattered her. A gu: 
tion for the strong lover admitting 
mingled with the mother-craving 
tection for self and child, was a frei 
revivifying the old allegiance. 

" Always yours, dearest — alwayi 

He looked at her searcliingly, 
seeming like a carven figure o 
strangely significant. 

" I could annihilate the thing t] 
between us," he said, and she wj 
frightened at his voice. It rolled 
superhuman — she harked back, in 
thought, to an earlier dream-memo 

He turned to a picture on the wal 
to it. It was the Alpine scene. 

" You and I," he said, "always t 
alone upon the heights." 

" Yes ! Yes ! " she said, only Iki 
standing. " Always — always ycurs 

She woke with a start, her own v 
ing in her ears. Night was still a 
in the little cubicle. She put out 1 
touched the matchboard wall to assu 
c£ her iiurroimdings. 

When s he wcke &£3iin it was to loo] 




the window and see the world white with 
snow. She remembered with some pleasure 
that she was off duty, had the day to herself. 
She wanted to be alone* Her head was a 
whirl of troubled thoughts. The' emotions of 
the dream were still in her blood. Her arms 
felt vacant, as though an infant had just been 
taken from them. A new longing came up in 
her — a craving for motherhood. She linked 
it to her dead lover. " Oh, Ronald ! " she 
murmured. " If only we had been married 

before you went to the war " She left the 

thought unfinished. The craving persisted, 
apart from his memory. She ached for a real, 
living affection in this world of men and 
women. Strange thoughts haunted her while 
she dressed. 

As soon as possible she escaped from the 
hospital, went out upon the moor that 
stretched in suave contours of dazzling white. 
A pale blue sky sank into its mists. A cold 
wind hurried over it, whirling up little 
columns of dusty frozen snow. She walked 
far into its solitudes, she hardly knew whether 
to escape from her thoughts or to be alone 
with them. 

At last she turned back. She had climbed 
out of a little hollow, was descending a feature- 
less slope when suddenly she perceived the 
figure ot a man, dark against the snow. He 
walked towards her quickly. Simultaneous 
with her recognition of him was the flush of 
blood to her face, a peculiar nervous thrill. 
It was Captain Lavering. She half hesitated. 
Then she strode forward, an insidiously 
victorious temptation masquerading as strong 
will. Why should she not pass him ? It was 

absurd. He might think She hoped 

that she was not blushing, or that the keen 
wind which fluttered her veil would be the 
self-evident excuse. 

They met. He stopped, made a gesture 
of salute. 

41 Good morning, Captain Lavering." She 
was glad to hear her own voice, had been 
afraid that she could not bring it to utter- 
ance. What was there so troubling about 
this man ? She avoided his eyes. " I'm 
pleased to see you walking about again." 
The crisis was successfully surmounted. She 
made as if to continue her way. 

" I saw you in the distance, Sister/' he 
said, bluntly. 

She did not find the commonplace remark 
for which she sought. He blocked her path- 

" I have been wanting to speak to you for 
a long time, Sister/' he said, as though he 
knew there was no necessity for the trite 

beginning. " Ever since you _sai 
You did — we won't discuss that." 
at him, speechless. " But I have 
I was sure that I was quite well i 
know what I am going to say. 
time you have felt what was i\ 
You must be my wife." 

He was strong and real — vivi 
She felt as she did sometimes wh 
opened from a dream into the soli 
ings of her cubicle. He barred o 

" No — no/' she breathed, dodge 
v hurried over the snow. 

He was by her side, keeping 
with her. 

" You can't escape me like thai 
There was obvious brute masculi 
tone. Though she tried to resen 
not displease her, and she was i 
herself that it did not. " Listen 
plain man. There is no fancy rom 
me. I don't want illusions. Bi 
you." He stated the fact witl 
decision. " I can offer you a goc 
and all that, but I know that does 
the matter. The vital thing is tha 
moment we set eyes on each other 
happened — — " For the first time 1 
in his tone. " We both knew it. 1 
I hate being sentimental. But I w 
and I know that you want me." 

" No — no ! " she said again, al 
ning. A blind desire to escape, fr< 
as much as from him, dominated h 
I can't." 

" Can't ? Why not ? You an 
know you were engaged. But he 
We live in a real world of flesh a 
You can't exist on a memory. Bes 
words came like a slave-driver's 1 
almost obeyed it, " you never lov< 
you love me ! " 

She revolted, stung to burning n 
against herself equally as aga 
masterful, crude male. She stoj 
faced him. 

11 Captain Lavering, you talk li] 
man." She triumphed in the stea 
her words. " You have insulted ri 
most uncalled-for manner. Let 

His eyes looked into hers, chalk 
sincerity, were assured of it. He y 
looked awkward. 

" Forgive me," he mumbled. 

She went on without a word, ign 
fact that he accompanied her. They 
an upward smc oth slope of snow that i 




up to a crisp outline against the blue sky. 
He ventured a sidelong glance at her, a little 
light of primitive cunning in his eyes. 

44 Quite Alpine, isn't it ? " he said. 

As intended — his tone implied a resumption 
of ordinary commonplace relationship — the 
words took her off her guard. But he was 
ignorant of their esoteric significance. In a 
flash, in a deep convulsion of the soul, she 
saw the Alpine picture, vivid with symbolism, 
of her other life 4< On the heights ! " In the 
full poignancy of the emotion it unlocked — 
her own vow of fidelity ringing in her ears 
from another world — she found herself strug- 
gling in a man's tight grasp, hot breath upon 
her face, lips seeking her own. " You must ! 
You shall ! " he tnuttered, straining forward 
to her. She stiffened, fought in a frenzv. 
44 Ronald ! Ronald ! " she cried. 

An icy wind swept down the slope, smote 
upon them like a breath from the grave, 
shudderingly cold. Captain Lavering uttered 
a little cry, relaxed his grip, and fell sideways 
upon the snow. 

Sister Braithwaite stared at him in horror. 
A great fear came upon her, an awe in the 

presence of unearthly power. She knew ! 
Her soul slipped* back into its dream-state, 
confronted, the visage of her lover, stern as 
destiny. The eyes judged her, forgave. 
Then, weeping hysterically, she ran towards 
the hospitaj. It was not far distant. 

They brought in the dead man. 

44 H'm," said the Medical Officer, looking 
at him. " Cerebral haemorrhage. This intense 
cold-- — I was always rather afraid of a 
lesion. A nasty shock for you, Sister. Well, 
well, another one finished — very sad, verv 

An orderly brought Sister Braithwaite her 
share of the just-arrived post. There was a 
letter from Ronald's mother. It enclosed one 
from the War Office. 

" Dear Madam," it ran. " It is regretted 
that no further details have come to hand 
regarding your son. Officially, he is still 
posted as 4 missing, believed killed.' " 

Sister Braithwaite shut herself in her cubicle, 
talked to the photograph with the vivid eyes, 
talked to it as 'primitive woman talks to 
the lover who has destroyed his rival. She 
reached out to the Other Side. 


The next instalment of Sir A* Conan Doyle's " British 
Campaign in France " is postponed for the present, as the military 
authorities consider that the narrative is drawing too close to 
the present situation, and that "The Facts at Last !— The Inside 
Story of the War," which it has been the unique character of 
this History to convey, might prove to the advantage of the 
enemy. The interval, we hope, will only be a short one, and the 
History will re-commence with "The Battle of the Somme." 


Every reader of this Magazine will be interested 

to hear that Sherlock Holmes will make his 

reappearance in an early number in a story 

which describes how he 

Outwits a German Spy! 

1 1 M IV fr<;i T V n F »/l f H I 


A Way They (Sometimes) Have 

in the Army. . 



Illustrated ty H. M. Bateman. 

FOUND Maria as nearly in 
tears as she ever ventured to 
be, for even in her greatest 
anguish she always remembers 
that they make her nose so red. 
i4 Potter/ 1 Maria wailed, 
" Potter told me this very 
morning that Government needs her. She said 
so as soon as I told her she left too much 
plate-powder in her silver; which is true/ 1 
she added, gloomily , " but I wish I hadn't 
said it till after the war* Now she says she's 
going to drive a van in a uniform, and where 
ever 1 shall get another parlourmaid gracious 
only knows/ 1 And Maria gave herself up to 

However, Maria's agony was premature, 
for the next time I met her she ad led 

Copyright, 1917. by 

out, " Potter's going to stay ! " long before 
I got anywhere near her, " She savs she 
wouldn't leave me for worlds/' And she seemed 
deeply moved by Potter's tribute, '* So I shall, 
of course, raise her wages, and say nothing 
more about the plate-powder till we're at 
peace/' By which I observed that Maria had 
learnt wisdom. 

It was not until I called again on Maria 
that I discovered the unconscious instru- 
ment by which mercy had been vouchsafed 
to her. Government had turned the park 
opposite her terrace into a camp, with khaki 
and huts complete, and khaki was drilling, 
drilling, and drilling, and N.CO/s were 
cussing, cussing, and cussing for all they 
were worth, and the plory of their country- 
M^jW^WWyi*^ yonng amateur 



cooks in khaki eauld be seen giving first aid 
to potatoes and other vegetables.. 

As for the park railings, they had all they 
could do to keep straight under the heavy 
weight of nursemaids with prams who watched 
the young heroes being rapidly transformed 
into something with which it is a rapture to 
walk out. In fact, for the first time in history 
babies in prams were at a premium, for they 
were the only valid excuse for lingering there 
by the hour. Indeed , Romance so held these 
young persons in her clutch that they were 
quite deaf to the wails of the prams, or at most 
only abstracted their gaze long enough to 
cork up the anguish of infancy with a 
" comforter." 

Over the way the serving young ladies in 
the terrace spent most of their time either 



collapsed. She'd never dreamed of an old 
aunty , although as a relative an old aunt may 
be said to be the least dangerous* 

However, Potter, not unmoved by Maria's 
agony, offered to stay if she might have as 
many evenings off a week as she needed to 
minister to her suffering relative. So Maria 
revived and raised her wages again. It must 
be confessed that Potter's aunty proved to 
be a very inconsiderate invalid. She required 
nursing at the most awkward time — right 
after dinner — and kept Potter uncommonly 
late in her nursing uriform, which consisted 
mostly of a new hat, a new feather boa, and 
a string of the best wax beads. On the isolated 
evenings when Potter remained in she relaxed 
from the severe* strain of nursing by taking 
the air on the upper area step — in time of 

peace one of the 
seven deadly sins* 
S t i 1 1 / al though k liak t 
patrolled the side- 
walk and winked 
genially at her, 
Potter looked virtu- 
ously away, unmoved 
by their admittrd 

So it was possibly 
in the nature of a 
thank-offering for so 
much mercy that 
Maria invited me to 
d i n n er— war (finite r t 
the kind that leaves * 
one with an aching 
void inside into which 
one is glad enough 
later to introduce 
even a cold water- 

iianging out of the upper front windows or 

they were for ever shaking the rugs on the 

balconies. The ladies of the terrace , hitherto 

united by common suffering, discovered that 

their situations, once avoided, were now filled 

with miraculous ease. In fact, the young 

serving ladies who applied for them now cooed 

H their turn, and the voice of the turtle-dove 

s heard in the terrace basements as never 

.ore, and it never complained. 

Maria basked in Potter's wintry and non- 

mmittal smile, and even gave licr two-and- 

: to cement her allegiance, 

[hen, just when she didn't expect it, a 

underbolt, of course, swooped down from 

e blue, for Potter announced that she had 

old aunty who was very had, and there- 

e a month's notice, please. Maria nearly 


After dinner we left Samuel in the dining- 
room with his pipe and the political situation, 
and retired to the morning- room, where a gas 
fire invites to soul-to-soul talks, after which 
it can be turned off. 

Potter was out ministering to her aunty, 
who, Maria complained not without reason, 
refused either to live or to die. When ques- 
tioned Potter remarked, with stony pro- 
J priety, that she really couldn't kill her even 
to please madam. To which Maria, of course, 
agreed, for she is nothing if not just. 

Now the only thing that lives and has its 
being in the morning- room is Maria's telephone, 
and no sooner had we settled ourselves down 
before the gas fire than it gave a tumultuous 
peal, Maria sa^l I ^ isir'i i,o go, for it was sure 

to be r^f FV ffi^rT^^^^ir^P^. ^ e new War 



Work Guild, to which only the super-select 
are eligible. 

"They've asked me/' she announced, in 
a lofty way, and put on hyr company smile 
from sheer force of habit, as if Mrs. 
Dill-Binkie could see hei as she raised the 

Now the room was so small and I was so 
near that I couldn't help hearing, for it might 
have been the Bull of Bashan telephoning, 
he roared so, 

11 I s'y, is Miss Potter in ? " 

" Miss— Hiss Potter ! What ? " Maria 
gasped, then 
collected herself. 
"She's out/' 
she 'phoned, 

" The wicked 
little dear, to 
deceive her own 
tootsy-wootsy ! 
Tell in s me she'd 
be alt alone , and 
I to come an' 
J ave a 'igh ole 
time, wot with 
beer an 1 fags, I 
s * y , are you 
cookie ? n 

Maria's spine 
turned v i s i b 1 y 
into a ramrod. 
"I'm not the 
cook! n she 
vibrated, shrilly, 

lt Then you're 
the ducky 'ouse- 
maid," and the 
roar seemed 
satisfied with its 
own explanation. 
" Do excuse me, 
miss, I didn't 
some'ow recognize your voice— 'ave you the 
flue ? You remember the gent as played 
the concertina at aunty's the other night ? 
'E's clean gone on you. Wants to meet 
you again at aunty's soon. Wot-o, poor ole 
aunty ! w the 'phone gurgled rapturously, 
" But wot I want to tfy " — and there was 
blandishment in the roar — L< 'ave you any 
more of that biled pork down your wV, 
miss, we f ad the other night ? Pass the 
word to cookie, an' tell 'er I Want to bring 
a corporal along for a tuck-in an' a sight 
of 'er bright eye. An J tell Miss Potter I've 
been a-kissin' of 'er by 'phone. She sent 
me twenty last night an 1 I'm goin T T er ten 



better n — and sure enough I heard thirty 

chaste salutes pass along that blameless 
instrument, for 1 counted them, wliile Maria 
shivered like Lady Macbeth on ice. 

" An* I s } y f miss, 'ow's that sweet missis 
of yourn ? Tryin' to find out why ole aunty 
don't die ! Crool, that ! I wouldn't be the 
bloke as owns 'er ! I s'y, wouldn't she swear 
if she could see poor ole aunty ! " the young 
warrior chortled. But his innocent mirth 
came to an untimely end, for Maria slammed 
down the receiver as if that long- suffering 
instrument were to blame, and just, too, 

when L was dying 
to hear more ot 
the way they 
have in the 

u 1 mean to get 
down very enrly 
hefore breakfast 
and give Potter 
notice/* said 
Maria Lady 
Macbeth , and 
brooded darkly. 

I was at Maria's 
the very next 
morning at 
eleven- thirty i I 
was so anxious 
to hear all 
about it, 

"Shoo! "Maria 
whispered^ but 
triumphantly, as 
she pulled me 
into the dining- 
room. u Potter's 
gone. Gave me 
notice first, 
though I came 
down in my 
bedroom slippers on purpose. Satid sl*e 
was obliged to leave at once, as her poor 
old aunt\ p was waiting for her ; and said 
that to me, too, just after I happened 
to look out of the dining-room window ! 
Cheek I " 

" And what did you say ? " I asked, for 
Maria seemed to expect it— she was obviously 
working up to a dramatic surprise. 

" I said to her, * Oh, I see ' "—and Maria 
bestowed the glint of a frosty smile on the 
late interview — " * and so that's your poor 
old aunty waiting for you in the area behind 
the ash-bin ? How ™ce she looks in khaki 




Illustrated ty Arck Webb. 

ERRY HOPKINS rose wearily 
and for the last time faced 
the man who was beating him. 
There was a touch of tragedy 
in the philosophic way he 
stood to his full height, for 
his scanty hair was tousled 
and his nose still bled in a 
riow desultory way that kept him sniffing. 
He knew, of course, the omen of the sudden 
hush which came as his glove met Dan's 
In a last perfunctory token of friendliness. 
ta Once he had even heard a man betting 
odds -that Dan would knock him out, but 
fee did not glance towards the prophet, for 
fee knew by heart how the audience stretched 
with craning necks and eager eyes in a -far 
arena round the ring. Instead he eyed the man 
who stood before him, his shoulders hunched, 
with each hand threatening punishment, and 
all his strength still patent in the play of his 
mighty muscles. Once he had met Dan before 
and won on points ; but it was different now. 
He was very tired, and he realized that at all 
costs he must keep away if he were to last out 
this one more round. 

So he circled around his man, his feet tip- 
tapping, with his long left moving warily before 
him, and his right high up, protectingly. All at 
once Dan's right foot moved, and his fist swung 
suddenly, so suddenly that Jerry was nearly 
caught. Just in time he slipped to the side and 
closed, but without a flicker of the eye Dan 
thrust him away, drew back, and hit again 
quickly, once, twice, three times determinedly ; 
and as Jerry ducked and stumbled, countered 
and ducked again, Dan's heavy left shot up 
fr — his hip and missed by a hairsbreadth. 
rry drew back and collected himself. He 
tried to hurt this man, tried to tire him, 
to trap him and flurry him with trickiness ; 
he was still here, just the same, with wide 
eyes and grim set jaw. So far Jerry had 
: on his feet, and he knew undoubtedly that 
; could hold out for just two more minutes 
light hope at the worst for a draw. Yet the 
d were so oddly hushed, as if each man 
~ what was coming, 
e again Dan sprang, his right found Jerry 
*nt him reeling aside with a gulp, his left 
l w. -2. 






followed, catching him clumsily, and Jerry 
closed, but vwith almost insane ferocity Dan 
struggled free and was upon him again. Just 
for a while Jerry's long reach worried him. 
He found that jolting left in his eyes, tried to 
thrust it aside, tried to work round it, but Jerry's 
right was there in support. That was just for 
a time whilst Jerry kept his head and his 
balance, but at last he tired, and Dan's strength 
won. In the sudden pandemonium that seemed 
to have seized the high-strung audience Jerry 
knew only that every man was on his feet, 
shouting, not necessarily at him or at Dan, 
just shouting, and that in spi£fc of all he had not 
yet gone down. 

Rocking, stumbling, sobbing despairingly, 
he still kept meeting those smashing blows. 
And suddenly the utter uselessness of it all came 
home to him. The nineteen rounds in which hfr 
had fought cleverly, clearly, and with courage 
were being mercilessly discounted. Presently 
one final blow would seal his fate and count 
as the just equivalent of the science with which 
he had outfought his man throughout. Brute 
strength would win. And even as he realized 
his fate, a swing landed accurately on his jaw, 
lifting him clear off his feet, and he dropped 
into a corner and lay there, inert, beaten. 

" Well, well, well, well, well ! " said the round 
little man. " This is good. Cheers you up, 
you know, to meet someone who hasn't been 

And he held Jerry's hand with the look of one 
who counts his blessings one by one, and gazed 
up at him admiringly. 

" Eighteen months since I saw you," said 
another member of the welcoming group. " And 
I believe you're looking fitter than ever." 

Jerry looked round him solemnly, and let them 
all wring his hand, and occasionally he nodded 
his head as if it were all just as he had expected, 
but he took really very little notice of all they 
were saying. And at last he slowly unbuckled 
his belt and with a gratified heave lifted his 
pack and deposited the whole of his equipment 
in a heap on the ground. Then he leaned his 
rifle, against the pyramid, shifted his cap on to 
the back of bis h*ad, and looked at it with 
supreme satiiif action. And alter a while he turned 






his head and gazed at all the people who had been 
talking to him so very quickly and agreeably 
for the last ten minutes and nodded to them 

" Yes/* he said, " I feel fine. I always knew 
I should when I got back this side again. Shall 
we go and have a drink ? " 

" Yon can't have a drink just now," said the 
round Utile man, regretfully. " There's a whole 
set of rules and things about drinks, you see. 
They don't let us file in till twelve." 

"Is that so?" said Jerry, resignedly, and 
nodded* "I'll push along then, and get a 
meal. D'you know where I can put up for 
a bit ? " 

44 You'll stay with me at the Lion for a start, 
Hopkins," announced one of the group, with 
some pomposity.* " I've a room all ready for 

" That's good of you," said Jerry. " I don't 
know quite where they'll send me afterwards. 
We've just got to change over with some of the 
N.C.O.'s at home. So they'll want us on the 
square pretty quick, I expect. Still, it's fine to 
have somewhere to go to right away." 

He nodded gratefully, and bent and picked up 
his pack. 

" Which way ? " 

And so, once again. Jerry Hopkins presently 
sat at Innch and ate from a plate with a shining 
knife and fork, and drank beer with some bite 
about it appreciatively from a pewter tankard. 
Meanwhile they talked to him, asking him 
questions and telling him of his friends at home. 
Nobody spoke of Muriel, though his heart was 
hungry for news of her, and in his mind's eye 
he kept picturing the little girl that he had never 
dared to bind to him, in wondrous gossamer 
dresses as before, and again in a sweet white 
blouse and a neat blue skirt, and even in pink, 
with^i delicate summer hat sheltering her face 
from the sun. And with such visions before him 
he thought, too, of the other man who had 
wanted her, and who had stayed at home. 
" And Dan Middleton ? " he asked. 
M Dan," they answered, " is still making 

In the silence that followed it seemed that they 
were waiting for him to speak, and so at last 
he answered quietly. 
"I'm wanting another match with Dan." 
There came a murmur of assent. 
" He hasn't been boxing lately, of course," 
said a lean man in the corner. 
Jerry looked up. " No," said he, with a touch 
-rperity, " nor have I." 
s host, with a show of tactfulness, cleared 

Ah f there's something educational," said he, 
>out the kind of scrap you and he put up. 
certainly ought to fight out the rubber." 
[ust as soon," said Jerry, "as 1 find out 
» time I shall have to myself. I've gone 
footed, and maybe I'll find myself rheu- 
icky and stiff. But I mean to meet Dan 
t — just once." 

Yoxxll have to come down to the same old 
ters and train again," suggested a grey- 

haired veteran by his side, ingenuously. " Miss 
Muriel's still there with her father. She speaks 
of you sometimes." 

" Oh ! " said Jerry, lifting his eyebrows. 
" Is Dan there much ? " 

The old man nodded. 

" Yes," he said. " Dan's there a good deal." 

And he glanced up at Jerry curiously. But 
Jerry's face was buried) gratefully it seemed, 
in his tankard, thus saving the situation. 

And so when his first week home had passed, 
and Jerry had settled down and learned his 
orders, he went one day to his old-time training 
quarters. His heart beat quickly as he drew 
near, and knew that presently he would be seeing 
Muriel again for the first time since he had gone 
to France just eighteen months ago, and he 
wondered, too, if Dan would be there. True, 
it seemed that he had not married her in his 
absence, and at one time Jerry had been quite 
terribly afraid of that. 

But he had yet to learn just how far Dan 
had scored through staying at home. He went, 
without knocking, into the long gymnasium 
that was an annexe to the house where Saxby, 
who used to train him, lived, and opened the 
door just as a man will go back to his old school 
in holiday time and stand for a moment rever- 
ently on the threshold of what was once his 
class-room. The room was empty. He stood for 
a moment looking thoughtfully at the practice 
ring and the punching balls along the walls, and 
then at last he had turned with a sigh to go 
towards the house, when there beside him, as if 
by some divine design, stood Dan. Somehow 
now that he saw him again Jerry felt curiously 
calm, and he stood his ground coolly. Yes, he 
was just as big as ever; his big blue eyes still 
looked upon one fearlessly. 

" Halloa, Hopkins ! " he said at last. " I heard 
you were back." 

Jerry nodded his head a little contemptuously, 
but he spoke no word. He just stood there 
watching Dan. 

" You've come to see Saxby ? " 

" Yes," said Jerry, " that's why I'm here. 
I wanted to get in touch with you." 

" Indeed ? " 

" Yes. I didn't expect to find you here — 
altogether. You're not training, are you ? " 

" No," said Dan. " Oh, no! " 

That was all. It seemed as if either man was 
equally determined that Muriel's name should 
not be mentioned. 

" Ah ! " said Jerry. 

" What did you want me for ? " asked Dan, 
and his voice had a hard, metallic ring. 

" I want to fight you again." 

There came a pause. 

" Do you ? " said Dan, at last. " I'm not 
boxing just now." 

" Nevertheless/' said Jerry, raising his eye- 
brows slightly, " I ask you to fight." And he 
spread his hands expressively. 

Dan shifted 1 his tect and clasped his brawny 
fists behind him 

" Have you 

forgitte^r k^'^t '' that I beat 



you before, when you'd had every chance, to 
train ? " 

" No," said Jerry, " nor that before that I 
had beaten you." 

" H'm ! " said Dan. 

"I'm not what I used to be," answered Jerry. 
" Eighteen months in the trenches make a 
difference. I'm slower. I've boxed sometimes 
behind the line and I know that. Still, I'm home 
now for a spell. They've sent back some N.C.O.'s 
from France to change over with some of the 
men from the barrack square, and I shall have 
time to train a little. And so— when shall 
we say ? " 

" When shall we say what ? " 

" How soon," said Jerry, evenly, " will you 
fight ? " 

" I'm not going to fight." 

They stood for a full half-minute looking one 
at the other. 

" Are you as much of a coward as that ? 
said Jerry, at last. 

" Don't use that word," said Dan, " to me." 

" It's the only word that suits," said Jerry, 
fiercely. " You stayed at home and looked on 
while I went to fight for you, and others like you, 
and so you've been earning your three or four 
pounds a week — at home, whilst I've been 
getting a shilling a day — for going through hell. 
You've spent your tihie loafing around here 
trying to — steal. Now you won't even fight. 
My God ! if you aren't a coward, Dan Middle ton, 
why then there are no cowards." 

Dan looked back at him stolidly. 

" I should be getting indoors if I were you." 

" I'm going," said Jerry. " Am I to take it 
you won't fight ? " 

Dan nodded bis head. 

" Then," said Jerry, " from now on, every 
paper in London shall contain my challenge, 
so that the public will understand " 


At the time most folk considered that warfare 
had altered Jerry, and so they spoke of him 
not unkindly. Few, of course, thought that it 
could be Muriel, for few remembered how he 
had worshipped her from a reverential distance, 
and Muriel was quiet and offered no confidences, 
even to her father. 

In due course Jerry left his room at the Lion, 
for he was ordered to a depot, and there he was 
soon a notable figure on the square, tall and 
erect ; and his ringing voice made tired platoons 
newly alert, so that they moved at last with the 
jerk that they had long been told by monotonous 
sergeants was very necessary and which they 
had never understood till now. 

And when he spoke, to recruits, of life in the 
trenches he did 30 intelligently, but in a way that 
made the newer warfare seem just a matter of 
fact rather than of romance, and which calmed 
their hearts. 

And yet he went his way alone and mixed with 
very few, for his heart was full of bitterness and 
his soul was restless with the longing to punish 
the man who had stayed at home to steal away 
the girl that he had very nearly won; and all 

day long he wondered how, since D 
not fight, this punishment could be d 
weapons had always been his fists : h< 
others, and in spite of his gentle wa 
manners that made a number of foil 
him for an amateur, he had no trust 
for speech, even the most sarcasti 
dependable when one wants to hurt 
the hurt/ 

His challenge to Dan appeared oc 
in the sporting papers, and sometim 
mentioned him and expressed sury 
Dan should be loth to fight again, bu 
came of it all. 

And so Jerry nursed his grievance 
evening Saxby himself appeared and f 
sitting alone in his billet. 

Jerry got slowly to his feet, an< 
regarding him curiously, was surpri 
then at the smouldering fire in his eye 
straight, set mouth. 

" Halloa ! " said Jerry. 

Saxby took his extended hand, an* 
a while just as a doctor might, and th 
down with an air of extreme deliberatioi 
his hat and stick upon the table. 

" Dan came to see me last night," sa 

" Dan's at your place quite a lot," si\ 

There came a silence ; then, as if 
never heard the interruption, Sax 
quietly : — 

*' Dan's willing to fight." 

For the moment Jerry made no mi 
just stood watching the other man as 
pected more, and when no other word 
turned at last and walked thoughtful 
the room and back, and as he faced Sax 
he suddenly clenched and unclenched 1 
and threw back his shoulders as if a he 
had been lifted from them at last. 

" Thank God ! " said he. 

The other- raised a wary hand. 

" From the way Dan spoke," said 
" I'm wondering who will win." And 1: 
looked up. 

" I shall win," said Jerry, " I think 

The other nodded his head as if he 
this observation with reserve. 

14 Dan seems to mean," said he, ' 
he were beaten he would never fight a 

Jerry passed a hand thoughtfully re 
back of his neck, and then he raised 
brows slightly and nodded his head. 

" Maybe he won't." 

Saxby got suddenly to his feet. 

" You're changed, you know, Jerry ; 
no denying that," said he. "And s 
I'm sorry. It isn't good to go into the 
a temper. Malice is never any use a 
the game, and — well, somebody had 
at home, you know. You needed sh 
there pretty badly at times." 

" We needed men, too," said Jerry, 1 
" It wasn't up to any man to offer to 

The other spread his hands. 

" I'm sorry you_ feel like that," s. 
f ' Well, they'll put up the usual purse, 



course, there's the belt. Can you get time off 
to train ? " 

** I'll manage that." 

The other paused. 

*• You'll stay to a bit of grub ? " said Jerry. 

-• No, 111 be getting along, thanks all the 
same. I've another appointment yet." 

He held out his hand, again and picked up 
his hat. 

" Good-bye, Jerry," said he. " Ring me up 
later on. If you Want a trainer, I'll be able to 
find you one." 

" D'you know," said Jerry, " what it is has 
made Dan alter his mind ? " 

" No," said Saxby, " I don't." And he almost 
added, " Unless, maybe, Muriel." 

But this he did not say. 


Hl was oblivious of the audience and of the 
buzz of conversation ; he had even forgotten 
the war and those sxenes of agony that he had 
thought he would never forget, and he did not 
draw comparison between his feelings now and 
ast time. The only thing he knew was that at 
last he had Dan in the ring. 

Sc he sat in his corner with his gloved hands 
tapping his knees incessantly and his keen 
eyes holding Dan's, whilst his heart seemed 
bursting with sheer tense gratitude to God for 
having given the stay-at-home into his hands at 
last. The referee was talking, but Jerry heard not 
one word he said. He noticed another man with 
a gleaming shirt-front, motioning him to stand 
up, and he got to his feet with his eyes still fixed 
unflickeringly upon the other. 

Then somebody nudged his arm, and mechani- 
cally he stretched out his hand. For a moment his 
glove was resting unwillingly in Dan's, and then 
he slowly drew back and waited again till some- 
body pushed him gently towards his chair; but 
never once did he glance at the referee or at 
the crowded seats around him. Always his 
eyes held Dan's. Someone had dropped his 
dressing-gown round his shoulders ; now some- 
one had taken it off again. Another was whisper- 
ing something into his ear. The referee was at 
the ropes. The man with the gleaming shirt- 
front was calling for silence. All these things 
Jerry vaguely understood, and yet he really 
saw no other figure but that of Dan, dour and 
silent, in his corner. And suddenly, in the still, 
respectful silence, a bell rang. 

Jerry got hurriedly to his feet, was half-way 

across the ring almost before Dan Middleton 

i left his chair. His hand touched Dan's. 

n he was hitting him. Oh, the glory of it ! 

left driving at the eyes like a piston and 

right moving ever before him, whilst his 

iw kept away clumsy counters meant for 

body. And all the while he was hitting — 

ing — hitting — with a half-subdued murmur of 

ider urging him on, and his long legs moving 

zkly, lightly, always keeping him out of 

ance from Dan's persistent swings whilst 

1 it and hit again. 

en suddenly Dan had slipped between a lead 

a following right, and whilst Jerry, watching 

too long the lowering brows and square set jaws 
of this bitter enemy, was well within range, 
Dan's mighty arm swung, and a quick blow 
landed on his cheek, jolting his head aside 
with a force that seemed for a second as if it 
had broken his neck, and then as he reeled 
another came up from the hip, flashing towards 
his chin. In the nick of time he tilted his head, 
and was away with dazzling cleverness, so that 
his left was once more playing with Dan, blinding 
his vision, teasing and taunting, but most of all 
bewildering him. And somehow Jerry could 
really have laughed, it was all such a sweet 
relief. He had dreamed of this by night and 
schemed for it by day — just to get Dan in the 
ring and punish him, to play with him for a 
while and worry him into a temper, and then 
to lash out with the horse-kick blows that were 
his asset when he willed, and thrash him as he 
deserved. He never considered that Dan could 
beat him again. Right was upon his side, and 
he fought with the jealousy of love. It was 
relaxation, reward for the months he had been 
kept so cleverly out of the way, fighting in rather 
a different style. Dan would not wear him down 
to-day ; he had never felt more supremely 
confident. He was fit with the fitness of acute 
desire, just as the sick man who resolves to get 
.well will do so long before mere medicine could 
set him right. 

To-day he . would put out for once and all 
this man who had never in all his fighting career 
been knocked off his feet. Oh, it was fine ! 
And so he fought to the end of the round — legs 
and arms continually a-go, and his left hand 
tapping Dan's nose and digging inquisitively 
at his ribs, whilst he slipped round vengeful 
swings, chuckling way down in his heart. 

When other rounds followed, and he still kept 
up this skilful play, the lookers-on caught his 
mood, and involuntary applause welcomed 
occasional dashing blows as Dan stumbled before 
his speedy and between the rounds, when each 
went solemnly to his seat, they turned one to 
the other in keen surprise and appreciation 
of such truly exceptional lightness of touch and 
movement in so big a man. 

To the fourth round Jerry fought like thi3, 
unaware that the audience were with him, 
uncaring whether he led on points or not, con- 
tent to follow his own determined plan, and when 
the fifth round came he began to hit harder and 
harder, to dance a little less, and to stand and 
drive with both hands whenever Dan tried to 

But the pace was beginning to tell even on 
Jerry, despite himself, though he knew that 
the day went badly, ever so badly, with Dan, and 
he took no notice at all of his own more laboured 
breathing and the first early signs of strain 
in his thighs and the calves of his legs. It was 
very, very slight, and Dan was there almost, 
it seemed, at his mercy, unsteady upon his feet, 
whilst his" mouth was tinged at the corners with 
blood, and one of his ears was swelling ominously, 
and his arms; still moved in the style of a tired 
performing bear, pawing at Jerry's leads, and 
sometimes swinging in desperation at his chin. 



1.1 11 MY- 

Sometimes these swings had landed, but jerry 
just shook his head in a careless way, and 
answered with harder leads and more vicious 
digs with his ever-ready right, as if each blow 
was one point ofi the score against the stay-at- 

Soon, in this way, rounds six and seven had 
passed, and the men who had paid to sei a fight 
were seeing one, To Jetrj it would have been 
as sweet an hour ii he could have met his man 

in private; the audience seemed merely a sort of 
stage-setting that could not very well be avoided, 
but he did not need their praise or their applause, 
and he did not want a purse for winning. He 
just wanted his chance and his chance had come. 
Tiring, lie still kept on. He would not slow down ; 
he would not spare his man. He knew that he 
was fighting a public fight in a ring, according 
to settled rutas, and he kept those rules* Ot! 
wisp !b.e iva^i th his o-m sake only — to 


2 3 

punish. And he meant to punish. And yet he 
could not knock Dan off his feet. His dearest 
ambition was not yet won. * 

Even then it did not seem possible to him 
that he could lose. He did not even trouble him- 
self to consider that Dan could stand his gruelling 
and yet be strong enough in the end to win. 
Confidence was his, confidence that was real 
and utter, and when the eighth round came he 
did not, for a minute at least, quite understand. 

At the bell Dan had sprung to his feet and 
jumped in to meet him almost as if some drug 
had revived his energy. One questioning thought 
flashed suddenly through the minds of the 
men who watched, and who had seen such thing9 
before. Had Dan been foxing ? Then they leaned 
forward with hands upon their knees and parted 
lips, and followed the points of .this wonderful 
round. Dan had gone strangely pale, and his 
eyes were bright. He came against that extended 
left, whirled it aside, and closed with Jerry. 
For a moment or two there was a glorious rally, 
first of in-fighting, and then of wholehearted 
blows from the shoulder. Jerry stood up to his 
man delightedly, giving him blow for blow, but 
Dan was the stronger, and drove him back. 
Again, just as before in that fight before the war, 
men were upon their feet, shouting. Jerry heard 
them, and struggled heroically to hold his ground, 
and to this end he lashed out blind blows with 
, left and right, and heard them landing, knew that 
they must be hurting, saw the blood they drew. 
And yet Dan was stronger. His blows came 
heavily, thudding swings, one after the other, 
any of which should have knocked a man off 
his feet. Jerry drew back unwillingly, gasping 
for breath, knew that the other was fighting him 
into a corner. 

And suddenly as he backed he saw Dan's face 
change suddenly from pallor to an uncanny yellow 
and saw him sway and recover, heard him sob 
hopelessly and gulp as that long left caught him 
again. In a flash Jerry saw his chance and leaped 
forward. But as he steadied himself for the knock- 
out blow Dan reeled and fell forward into his 
arms. Jerry drew away callously, lifted his hand, 
saw that Dan's mouth was clenched in an effort 
to brace himself. And then as he paused Dan fell. 
A roar went up from the audience. Jerry stepped 
back, watching his man roll slowly on to his side 
and try to lift up his head. He was not listening 
to the timekeeper counting the seconds ; he saw 
that Dan was trying to speak and he listened to 
" S-sorry," said Dan. " I — can't — go on. Can't 
I— can't lift my " 

id then he flopped on to his face and 

ut!" said the timekeeper, suddenly, and at 
aaen were in the ring, lifting him up, and one 

leading Jerry back to the corner, patting him 

nly on the back. 

Th|sy had told him Dan wanted to speak to him, 
so he went down the narrow stairway into the 
changing-room that was lit with wired-in gas- 
jets and looked for Dan solemnly. He sat in 
a corner with his head against some sacking, 
and as Jerry came towards him he motioned the 
little group around him away. 

" It's all right," he said, evenly. " Don't get 
scared. I'm not pegging out or anything like 
that. I — I've a decent constitution, you know. 
It only means I'll have to go slow in future." 

" What's wrong ? " said Jerry, but he did not 
offer his hand. 

" The blasting furnace." 

There came an odd, strained silence. 

" The blasting furnace ? " said Jerry, at last. 

" Yes. Nobody else knew, you see. I didn't 
want them to. I told theih I just hammered in 
nails. So I wouldn't let anyone train me for the 
fight either. I looked after myself, and I managed 
to pass the doctor here. I was anxious about 
that, too." 

" D'you mean your job is injuring your 
health ? " said Jerry. " Is it heart trouble ? " 

" That's about it," said Dan. " The furnaces 
always do, they say. I wouldn't believe them at 
first. I thought I could stick it." 

" Why the devil didn't you say so, then ? " 
demanded Jerry. " I'd no wish to fight an 

" I didn't want anyone to know," said Dan. 
" These things get round, and I thought it'd get^ 
to Muriel in the end." 

" You didn't want her to know ? " * 

Dan shook his head. 

" I was under a misunderstanding," he said, 
with a new humility in his tone. " I thought she 
liked me all right, and I didn't want to frighten 

" Well ? " said Jerry, and his heart was beating 

" I was mistaken," said Dan. " When you 
kept on taunting me, I went to ask her if she'd 
marry me. If she'd said * yes,' I wouldn't have 

" Well ? " said Jerry again. 

Dan looked at him. 

" She said ' no,' " he answered. 

And after a long, peculiar pause, in which 
these two men looked each other straight in the 
eyes, Dan said : — 

" She gave me to understand that there was 
someone else." 

And he held out his hand. Jerry looked at it. 
He had never meant to shake hands with Dan 
Middleton again in his life. But he laughed, and 
his hand slipped into Dan's to hold it. 

" Thank you, Dan," was all he said. 

Dan nodded his head. 

" If I were you," said he, " I should be getting 

by Google 

Original from 

(This article ha J gone to press before Lord De&onport s res/, 



evident that his qualities impresse 
selves upon his earliest political cli 
piloting the Ship of State, It has 1: 
of Lord Devonport that jortittr in 
natural possession, suaviter in mods z 

HEX the ( ampbell-Bannerman 
Government of 1906 was 
formed ? it was found that 
two well-known wholesale tea 
and provision merchants, 
Messrs, T. Lough and Hudson 
E, Kcarley, had been appointed Parlia- 
mentary Secretaries respectively to the Board 
of Education and Board of Trade. It was 
related as " a good story ?? that the Presidents 
of those Departments, Mr, Birrell and Mr. 
Lloyd George j were walking one day down 
Whitehall when Mr. Birrell remarked, " I say, 
George 3 I believe you've pot the best of 
the two grocers/' Mr. Kearley, now Lord 
Devonport, can afford to smile at that 
reported reference, Is he not now one of 
the Millionaire Captains of Industry sum* 
moned by the Prime Minister to the service 
of his country at a moment of crisis ? It is 

Original from AGE 26 


The Food Controller 
entered Parliament 
in somewhat remarkable 
circumstances, He 
secured election for 
Devonport in 1892 as 
Liberal member after 
that borough had been 
held by the Conservatives 
for a period of twenty 

When he first sought 
Parliamentary honours 
Mr. Hudson Kearley was 
not the ready and polished 
speaker that he is to-day. 
Like so many others , he 
knew what he wanted to 
say, but it was not so 
easy to say it to a critical 
crowd. Therefore, at the 
outset he used to commit 
a very excellent summary 
to a sheet of ordinary 
notepaper that could be 
easily held in the hand, 
and this, with slight additions, frequently 
served as the report of his speech in the 
local newspapers. 

As time went on the batch of notepaper 
grew smaller and the notes less full, until 
eventually a sheet of notepaper, with a 
few single lines written across, indicating 
topics to be dealt with, was sufficient. It 
was sheer force of character that enabled 
him to triumph over orating difficulties j 
difficulties accentuated by the fact that his 
colleague, Mr. E. J. C. Morton, was one of 
the very best of speakers, whose services were 
in great demand all over the country. But 
while Mr. Morton might have talked himself 
into Parliament, Mr, Kearley had to work his 
'way there. Whether he carried both seats at 
that election is a moot question. 

But he devoted himself to understanding 
the sheaves of grievances under which the 
dockyardmen and the naval men of the port 
laboured at the time, and he studied to such 
purpose that by the time he became M.P. he 
knew far more about naval and dockyard 
questions than the Admiralty representatives 
in the House of Commons, and became a 
veritable thorn in their sides. Indeed, he had 
not long been a member before he started out 
on the great task of securing the adjustment 
of the grievances of the thousands of his 
constituents with which he had made him- 
self acquainted. Carefully avoiding those 
" grievances " which were more imaginary 

than real, he tackled those 
which had solid substance 
with characteristic energy 
and persistence. 

At first he was received at 
Whitehall b) r the permanent 
officials with the usual suave 
promises of " serious con- 
sideration " from those who 
inwardly chafed at the in- 
dustry of the " new broom/* 
and fondly imagined the 
novelty would soon wear off* 
But they mistook their man. 

AGE 48. 

He pursued the subjects, and the responsible 
officials, until they feared the sight of the 
member who insisted on promises being 
fulfilled, and whose pertinacity was gven 
more pervading than the Parliamentary 
representatives of the Board of Admiralty, 

Hitherto it had been customary at the 
annual visit of the Lords of the Admiralty 
to the various ports to receive deputations 
of workmen, who presented petitions asking 
for various concessions. Months afterwards 
stereotyped replies would be received, some- 
times creating further grievances in the 
pretence of dealing with those existing. That 
procedure did not suit the man of energy, the 
senior member for Devonport ; and as time 
went on grievances were remedied to such an 
extent that the cynical anticipated that, with 
the ordinary gratitude.juccorded to politi- 





remained faithful to their senior member to 
the end* 

A recognition of his public services came in 
the shape of a baronetcy in 1908, and when, 
in 1910, he accepted the chairmanship of the 
Port of London Authority, and the practical 
administration of that vast organization 
without remuneration, a peerage was the 
resultant reward. It was then that a glimpse 
o£ unsuspected sentiment peeped out by his 
taking the somewhat prosaic title of Devon- 
port. Those closely associated mi^ht have 

His fearlessness and oblivion to u popularity Tt 
has been more recently shown by his accept- 
ance of the office of Food Controller, It was 
obvious from the outset that this was an 
office the holder of which would be the 
subject of the most bitter and general 
criticism ? even beyond that showered on any 
previous administrator in this country. 
Touching a Briton's breakfast table is a 
serious matter. But Lord Devonport knew 
the question inside and out as few others did, 
and he did not hesitate. 

Photo, by J* RuMMtil J: Son* 

expected that by that time Sir Hudson had 
had as much of Devonport as he wanted. 
But here was a great acknowledgment that 
as all this public work was done as member 
for Devonport, so he would be known as 
Devonport to the end. 

His firmness when occasion demanded it 
was demonstrated in the London Dock Strike 
of 1911, when the demands of the dockers 
were absolutely and successfully resisted until 
after work had been resumed. His adminis- 
trative ability in the conduct of the chairman- 
ship of that body has been unquestioned. 

It may be of interest to recall that during 
his first election campaign Mr. Kearley was 
popularly known as i; Curly "— a sohriq 
which emanated but partly from the corr 
tion of w Kearley," For the Parliament 
aspirant, although in some aspects El a li 
thin on the top/' as the barbers say, posses 
a wealthy cranial adornment of dark cling 
curls , which, with his open and pleasar 
smiling count enance, was singularly effeel 
Time has altered the colour and wealth 
those lockij : but Lord Devonport retains a 
pNM^|i*ffli^**8n«^r*trikin ff figure 







Jiggle s Astonishing Afternoon. 



Illustrated by Alfred Leete. 

to himself as he cycled slowly 
along that leafy Warwickshire 
by-way. Mr. Jiggle came from 
Hackney, ana nothing con- 
tributed so pleasantly to the 
self-respect of this little dealer 
in oddments as a few days among the country 
bumpkins. Given* a pleasant manner and a 
quick eye for a bargain, you could pay for 
you* holiday ten times over. 

Rounding a bend in the. road, Mr. Jiggle 
came quite suddenly on the Hair of the Dog 
inn. What a picture the old hostelry presented 
on that ideal afternoon in early summer ! 
The tumbledown roof, the roses clambering 
over the porch and in at the windows, the 
pond beneath the shade of the great elnv and 
Tom Pillow, licensed victualler, standing in 
the doorway with his long clay pipe. 

Mr. Jiggle at once alighted... He had taken 
a fancy to the landlord's round, honest 
" Afternoon," said Jiggle. 
14 Good afternoon to you, sir," replied the 

" Have you got a drop of good beer 
inside ? " 

" Best in England, sir. Will you please to 
step into the parlour ? " 

It was the parlour that Mr. Jiggle wanted. 

These simpletons always kept their treasures 

in the best parlour. Many a corner-cupboard, 

0! a grandfather clock, or a bit of exquisite 

old china had Mr. Jiggle picked up for a fiftieth 

part of their value in country parlours. In 

certain districts, no doubt, the yokels were 

getting cautious ; Mr. Jiggle and his friends 

ad themselves to blame for that. But this 

ellow, this moon-faced loon of a Pillow, was 

gift from the gods. 

The inn was quite deserted. A hen came into 

le parlour, looked at Mr. Jiggle, winked 

ipidly, and retired. Nothing else stirred. 

Iiggle could hear the landlord drawing him 

ome nice cool fcxjer in the cellar. 

Swiftly he looked about him. The usual 

ock, the usual corner-cupboard, the usual 

tina dogs, the usual sporting prints. Nothing 

Copyright, 1917, 

worth the carriage to London. Something 
unique and portable Mr. Jiggle wanted on tliis 
dreamy afternoon. He was becoming an 
epicure in tasty bargains. 

Tom Pillow, that splendid old yeoman with 
the steady blue eyes, returned with the tankard 
of ale. , He beamed with simple pride as he 
placed it before his guest. 

" Take anything yerself ? " inquired Mr. 
Jiggle, in his very pleasant manner. 

" Well, thank you, sir; I'll have a stone 

" Nothing in it ? " laughed Jiggle, with a 

Mr. Pillow was perfectly serious. 

" No, sir, thank you. I'm teetotal." 

" Teetotal, eh f ghat's a queer thing for 
a landlord! I can't remember that I ever 
came across a teetotal laridlord before ! " 

" Maybe not, sir. But I have my reasons 
for never touching a drop." 

Tom Pillow went into the bar, helped him- 
self to the stone ginger, and was about to 
raise the innocuous glass to his lips when he 
suddenly paused, staring very hard at Jiggle. 

" Well ? " said Jiggle. " Anything the 
matter ? " 

" No, sir, there ain't nothing the matter, 
but I'd like to tell you a bit of a story, if so 
be as you can spare the time." 

" Drive on," replied Jiggle. 

" I was just telling you, sir, that I never 
touched a drop. That's true, and everybody 
in these parts knows it ; but I can't say as 
I was always so temperate. In fact, quite the 
other way. A publican has temptations, and 
too many of 'em yield. I was one that yielded. 

" Yes, sir, I yielded pretty frequent, until 
one night I came near to losing my life in 
consequence. I dare say you noticed a deep 
pond the other side of the road. You can see 
it now through the winder." 

Mr. Jiggle nodded. He was interested in 
the story, but he wished Mr. Pillow would not 
stare at him quite so fixedly. 

" Well, sir, I'd been over to Stratford market 
and met a lot of friends, and got a pretty fair 
load aboard. In* plain language, I was drunk. 
That's straight, and mighty ashamed I am, 
all this time after, to say it. 

by Keble Howard. 



* " I wouldn't trust myself to drive home, so 
I gets a chap to put me in the train at Stratford, 
and I manages to get out all right at our little 
station just up the road. It was. pretty late, 
and there wasn't many people about to notice 
the disgraceful condition as I was in. 

" I dare say you can guess, sir, what's 
coming." And at this the landlord stared 
even harder at Mr. Jiggle. 

11 I think I can," said Jiggle. " You fell 
into the pond, eh ? " 

4< How did you know that ? " demanded 
Pillow, dropping his voice to a mysterious 

" I dunno," replied Jiggle, shifting rather 
uncotafortably on his chair. " Get on with 
the yanui' 

" All was quiet here. The inn was closed and 
my wife in bed. I stepped back, silly-like, to 
admire the old place in the starlight, and into 
that pond I went, just as you said." 

" Well ? " 

" fust as you said!" repeated Mr. Pillow, 
with great earnestness. " I floundered about 
for a bit, and all me past come back to me in 
a flash. That was how I knew as I was 
drowneding. It was that vivid you'd never 
believe — right back to infancy ! 

" Arid then, sir, the most curious thing 
happened. I felt meself suddenly grabbed by 
the seat of me trousers, and pulled out of the 
pond to life and safety. Through the gloom 
I could see a gentleman, a stranger. • He never 
said a word, but turned round before I could 
stop 'im, got on his bicycle, and rode off. 
Now, sir, there was a funny thing ! " 

" Is that all the story ? " 

" That's all the story, sir, except that I 
never set eyes on that gentleman from that 
day to this." 

" Rum beggar. Just get me another pint, 
will you ? " 

Mr. Pillow took uprthe tankard and went 
out of the parlour. When he returned he had 
the tankard in one hand and something which 
he clasped very tightly in the other. Unfolding 
his huge fist, he disclosed to the eager gaze 
of the little Hackney dealer an old gold watch, 
highly engraved. 

" You see this watch, sir ? " went on the 
landlord. " It was left to me by my father, 
who had it from his father. I don't rightly 
know how old it is, but they tell me it's worth 
a lot of money. Now, sir, do you know what 
I mean to do with that watch ? " 

" You want me to buy it, I suppose ? " 

" No, sir; I'm going to make you a present 
of it." 

as Mr. Pillow was still staring at 
reflected, quickly, that his bicycle 
outside the porch. The man undoub 
mad ; still, was that Jiggle's fault*? 
of it. He would humour the fellow 
take the watch and his chance. 

" And why," he asked, easily, wil 
of conscious virtue, <c are you goin 
your watch to me ? " 

" Becos," replied Pillow, laying j 
hand on the visitor's little knee, " 
man as pulled me out of that there pa 


Jiggle's London brains worked ver\ 
Assuming the coy air of a shy Samari 
good deed has been brought to Hgl 
all. his efforts at concealment, he 
embarrassed smile, tried to blush, a] 
out of the window. 

" Can you deny it ? " continued 
lighted landlord. 

" Am I obliged to answer that qu 
. murmured Jiggle, examining his nails 

" You y avc answered it, sir. By no 
of it you 'ave answered it. I knew y 
size and shape of you. * Mark my wo 
said to my old woman many's t 
' that gen'leman will come this w 
one of these days, and then I shall 
dad's gold watch.' " 

" Oh, but really " protested Jij 

ing the huge fist that contained the \ 

" Now, sir, I won't take no deni 
saved my life, and I want to make yo 
present in return. When I say a smal] 
it's the best I have to give. This w 
been valued by two jewellers — Mr. ( 
Stratford, and a big place in Brum a 
remember the name of. But they bot 
as it was a very vallyble watch." 

*' From the glimpse I had of it," s 
Mr. Jiggle, " I should say it was wortl 
"ten pounds. Now, at the risk of < 
you " 

" Ten quid ! " The landlord, roar 
laughter, dealt Jiggle a great puncl 
chest. " Ten quid, says you ! That'i 
'un, that is. Why, my dear sir, Mr. I 
I was mentioning, a man I've knoi 
thirty year, put it at sixty pound." 

" Really ? " 

" Aye, that 'e did. And the man in ! 
the big shop said nearer eighty. I 
you'd ought to 'ave some slight idej 

Mr. Jiggle had suddenly become very 
Eighty pounds ! He could affotd to 

Mr. Jiggle now stared as hard at Mr. Pillow hir. holiday and take the quickest tra 



PONDl " 

to London. But the watch was still in the 
landlord's gigantic paw. Warily, Jiggle ! Go 
warily, my boy. There's many a slip ! 

" It does you great credit/' he said, " But, 
after all, what I did was nothing. A mere 
nothing. I really couldn't think -" 

Mr. Pillow held up a hand, the hand that 
contained the watch, for silence. 

" Nothing to you, maybe, sir, but what 
about me ? What about my old woman ? 
Think of ? er feelings if I'd bin drowneded in 
me own pond, and all the neighbours 'ad got 
ter know as I come 'ome dead drunk an' fell 
in. 'Ow could that poor woman 'ave 'eld up 
'er 'ead again ? No, sir; you, may say it was 
nothing what you did, but / say it was worth, 
ilot on'y this gold watch, but the grandfather 
clock as well- And if you give me any more 
back answers, as sure as my name's Tom 
Pillow, you'll J ave to 'ave the clock and the 
watch both." 

Br. Jiggle shrugged his shoulders His face 
w >re the whimsical look of a man who, from 
si *ei good-nature, was about to accept an 
tithty -pound gold watch* 

Well, Mr. Pillow/' he said, u I won't argue 
^ h you further. If I must take it I must' 
E t with this stipulation, mind you — you 
rc st let me do something for you in return." 
1 That J s a good one ! " chuckled the land- 
lc d. H Let me do something for you, says you. 
A if you hadn't done something a'ready. My 
* id, if that ain't a beauty I " 

" *Arf a minute/' pleaded the 
man from Hackney. " I'm not 
going to insult you, Mr* Pillow* 
by offering you money forv your 
watch. Keep calm now. I 
wouldn't insult you like that, not 
for the world , but 1 thought, 
maybe, you might be interested 
in some charity or other, as I 
could give' a trifle towards, or 
something o' that." 

" You wish that ? There's no 
call for nothing of the sort; mind." 

" I do wish it." 

" Then come into the bar," 

The landlord led the way, and 
Mr, Jiggle, closely eyeing the fist 
that grasped the watch t followed. 
Mr. Pillow went beliind the bar, 
and took from a nail in the wall 
a piece of cardboard. At the 
head of this was inscribed, in 
amateur letterings picked out in 
water-colours : — 


names or 


Below various 
appended in pencil, and against them the 
amounts subscribed by patrons and friends 
of the house. These sums varied from one 
shilling to five guineas, 

" Yer see, sir/' explained Mr, Pillow, laying 
the card down on the bar for Mr. Jiggle's 
inspection, and lovingly polishing the case 
of the gold watch as he talked t " this 'ere 
pubiic-'ouse is the pride of the village. I gets 
support from all classes — from the gentry 
be cos I'm a teetotal man meself, and keeps 
good order, and from the workin'-folk becos 
I sells good beer and gives good measure. 
The roof is a-comin' off, as you may 'ave 
noticed, and the walls is a-cavin' in, but the 
owner won't spend a penny puttin' it ter 
rights. So rather than lose old Tom Pillow— 
an } I couldn't stay 'ere another winter unless 
the roof was mended — these 'ere good friends 
J ave come forward with their 'sorptions. And 
when you said — not, mind yer, as there's any 
call for nothing from you, the man as saved 
my life!" 

Mr. Jiggle read the card with considerable 
care. He was wondering, in point of fact, 
just how little he could give. -Mr, f illow ? 
unfortunately, still had the watch. The rase 
flashed in the sunlight as the landlord rubbed 
it against his sleeve. With every flash Jiggle's 
cupidity grew keener and keener, 

for a shSK 



as to change his mmd about the watch. On 
the other hand, five guineas was too much. 
What about ten shillings ? A guinea, no doubt, 
would be safer. A guinea was such a gentle- 
manly sum. 

Drawing a pencil from his pocket with a 
careless air, Mr. Jiggle wrote on the card, 
" A. J,, £i is." Then he pushed the list across 
to the landlord. 

Honest Tom PilloVv put on his spectacles 
to read the amount. 

"That's 'andsome," he said. " That's very 
'andsome. You won't put yer full name, 
I s'pose ? " 

Mr. Jiggle modestly declined. But there was 
one thing he would do — he would have a small 
gin. To his intense disappointment, the 
landlord slipped the watch into his own pocket 
whilst he drew the gin. 
. " Let's see/' reckoned Tom Pillow. " Two 
pints of ale — sixpence ; one go of gin — four- 
pence ; ginger- beer — twopence. That'll be 
one-pun-two ter see us square, I think." 

Mr. Jiggle produced his purse and opened it. 
What if the landlord forgot, after all, to give 
him the watch ? 

"Should I — should I pay now?" he. 

44 If you please, sir." * 

" You — you wouldn't rather have a cheque 
for the subscription ? " 

Mr. Pillow shook his head emphatically. 

41 1 never touches cheques." 

44 Very well." 

The risk was small, for the landlord was 
honesty personified. In business Mr. Jiggle had 
often taken much greater chances than this. 
Thirty shillings were laid upon the bar, swept 
into the till, and eight shillings change given* 

And then Mr. Pillow went on polishing the 

" Well ? " said Mr. Jiggle, in the tone of 
a man ready for the road. 

" Eh ? " replied the landlord, intent on the 

" I must be getting along." 

" That's you, then." And he again slipped 
the watch into his pocket. 

" Should I " 

" Beg pardon ? " 

" I was wondering if — if — if I'd have another 
small gin." 

Mr. Pillow shook his head. 

" In my opinion," he observed, " you've 
'ad quite enough." 

Mr, Jiggle stared* There was a decided 
change of manner about the landlord. The 
air of respect, to say nothing of fawning 
gratitude, was missing. 

" You're joking," ventured Jiggle. 

" Not me. I wouldn't see a man as saved 
my life take ter drink, not if I could save 'im 
from sin by putting out me 'and. And my 
advice to you," concluded Tom Pillow, point- 
ing towards the open door with a huge fore- 
finger, " is this— 'op it I See ? " 

Dimly, Mr. Jiggle began to see. He began 
to understand that the sharp fellow from 
Hackney had been diddled by the simple 
Warwickshire yokel. And as' he stared in 
growing amazement at that sinister great 
finger, all finesse deserted him. 

" What about that watch ? " he demanded. 

" What watch ? " countered the landlord. 

" You know very well what watch. The 
watch you said you were going ter give me for 
pulling you out of the pond." 

"The man's dreaming," said Tom Pillow 
to the ceiling. 

" Call this a sense of gratitude ? " sneered 
Jiggle, viciously. 

" No," returned the landlord, shortly. 

Unexpectedly, the man from Hackney 
changed his tactics. He laughed, not very 
mirthfully, and rubbed his hands. 

" Well," admitted Jiggle, " I give you best. 
You fair did me for that guinea. Ha,, ba ! 
Neat a thing as ever I come across." 

" Did you ? " repeated Tom Pillow. "JOw 
d'yer mean — did you ? " There was an earnest 
look on his childlike face that Jiggle sHdbkl 
have noted. 

" You know very well* That guinea fer tke 
resteration o' the pub. That was a clean do, 
that was. Look 'ere; give me that back an' 
I'll call it quits about the watch." 

The landlord, keeping his large round eyes 
on the man from Hackney, sauntered round 
from behind the bar. Jiggle, much in the 
spirit of King Agag, wondered what was 
going to happen. Nothing, of course, at all 
personal. Such things were not allowed in 
a civilized country. The police would not 
tolerate personal violence. 

Tom Pillow, after a glance out of the window, 
came quite close to his visitor, and stooped to 
look into the shifty little eyes. 

" You're drunk," he said, quietly. 

" I'm not," protested Jiggle. 

" I say you're drunk, and what I say in this 
pub goes. Will you get out or must I' throw 
you out ? " 

" I won't go without my guinea ! " 

" You won't, eh ? " 

" No, I'm- — " 

He found himself off the ground. He kicked 
and swore, r*nd f ven pinched, but Tom Pillow 
could not feci pinches. Carrying the little man 



to the open door, he flung him into the roadway 
like a rotten apple, knd then, without hurry, 
closed the door, 

Mit. Albert Jiggle, smothered in dust and 
aetthing with malice, picked himself upr 
To his great satisfaction, a policeman was 
coming up the road, who must have witnessed 
the whole incident, Mr Jiggle ran — yes, ran — - 
|D meet him, 
14 Did you see' that, constable ? " 
" See what ? " replied the constable. He 
was nearly as big as Tom Pillow, and just as 
childlike in expression. They might, in fact, 
have been brothers. 

* You saw me thrown out of that public- 
house ? M continued the excited Jiggle, looking 
up at the constable. 

ki Maybe I did and maybe I didn't," 
" Of course you did, /That man, that land- 
lord, threw me out. I'm going to have the 
law on him. I'll teach him manners before 
I've done with him, I'm from London, I 

' Ho ! You're from Lunnon, are yer ? " 
ri Yes, I am, and I know the law ! I'll have 


that great brute up for assault, and make him 
pay damages as well as a fine ! You come along 
with me, constable, I'm going to give him in 
charge before he's a minute older!" 

I he man from Hackney ran to the door of 
the inn and kicked it. The door opened, and 
the landlord filled the doorway. He threw 
the constable a cheerful sideways nod, 

il Arternoon, Bob." 
" Artcrnoon, Tom." 

" This is the man ! " cried the passionate 
Jiggle. " I order you to arrest him, constable I " 
" Me arrest Tom Pillow ? " 
" Certainly ! " 
%i What for ? What's 'e done ? " 

II You know what he's done. You saw it. 
He threw me out into the road." 

t( For bein' drunk," put in the landlord, 

u I wasn't drunk ! " almost s< Teamed the 
tittle man from Hackney, " If I was drunk 
five minutes ago t I should be drunk now. 
I appeal to you, constable. Am I drunk ? " 

" You certainly act like it," said the 

1( _ So would you," ass ei ted Mr, Jiggle, "if 
a man did you out of a guinea and then 
threw you into the roadway ! " 

*' Did vou out of a guinea ? J Ow was that, 

4t J E very kindly give a guinea t'ords the 

resteration Eond," explained Tom Pillow, u I 

told 'im twire there was no call to do it. You 

can see 'is 'nishuls in 'is own writm' on the 


** Yes," cut in Jiggle, 
" but why did I give it ? " 
11 Goodness of 'eart " 
suggested the landlord. 

"That beblowed! "E 
said 'e was going to give 
me his gold watch for pulling him out 
pf the pond and saving his life ! " 

" Pond ! What pond ? " asked the 

Cl That pond in front of yer nose," 
said Jiggle, 

Ave you bin in that pond, Tom ? " 
"Not me, Bob. Anyway, 
it ain't a foot deep-" 

"Both the giants looked 

placidly down at the man from 

Hackney. And Mr. Jiggle, 

looking up at them as they 

leant their huge shoulders 

against the doorposts, sud- 

~ denlv, realized that there was 

1 nun nothing to be gamed by further 

L ff^'ER^T ! turr.ent.:HfGAN 







" Very well," he said, taking hold of his 
bicycle, *' I shall know what to do when I get 
to London and see my lawyer," 

But the constable was not done with him 
yet. Reaching out a long arm, he gripped the 
handles of the bicycle. 

" 'Arf a minute. You said, I think, as you 
was from Lunnon ? ,J 

" Yes, I am. So much the worse for you." 

11 We shall see about that in a minute. Did 
you call at a cottage this morning about two 
miles down the road and buv a piece of 
lustre ? " 

41 That's my business." 

"And mine. You seem to answer very nicely 
to the description as was give me. You bought 
that bit of lustre off an old lady. You gave 
'er two bob for it. That's right, ain't it ? " 

a I refuse to answer your questions. Let 
go my machine ! n 

lt Don't forget as I can lock you up for bein' 
drunk. Tom Pillow will give evidence. You 
smell of beer at this moment." 

14 Well, since you want to know, I did give 
two shillings for the lustre. What about it ? " 
4 This about it. That bit o' lustre is worth 
a sovereign if it's worth a penny. And you 
know it. And this more about it* That old 
lady 'appens to be my mother, mine and Tom's 

'ere. I sent 
word on to 
Tom to keep 
you till I come. 
That's what 
about it ! And 
now we should 
like to know 
what you 
mean to do 
about it ? " 

" This is a 
put-up job, 
then ? " 

11 Looks like 
it," observed 

" What 
you want 
to do ? " 

the lustre 
pay the 

Mr. Jiggle 


quickly. He 

was in a tight 

corner. The 

Pillow brothers 

were inexorable. The beastly Bob would 

certainly lock him up if necessary, and the 

horrible Tom would get him a month in jal 

or a heavy fine. 

Slowly, reluctantly, trembling with subdued 
rage, lie paid over the eighteen shilling. 
Then, without another word, he mounted his 
machine and rode off down the road. 


The Pillow Brothers, as soon as tne man 
from Hackney had disappeared, went into 
the bar f Tom, as a matter of course, 
drew two pints of the best ale, and they 
drained their tankards before speaking, 
Then r— 

11 Was that that cracked bit," asked Tom, 
" that mother 'ad on the mantelshelf in 
the parlour ? " 

11 That's right, 'E never noticed the era k 
or 'e wouldn't have paid two hob for it," 

The landlord, very respectfully, drew 1 s 
brother another pint. 

" So you worked the watch trick on f a 
while you was waiting ? H asked Bob, 

i£ Ah ! Wunnerful 'ow easy these Lunn n 
chaps fall for it," 

And the teetotal landlord drew a secor i 

piddWttrBBi*i4lOF MICHIGAN 










r should elate the optimist and 
grently depress the pessimist 
to know that I, who stand for 
all that is athletic, agile in 
women, for all that is muscular, 
physically enduring ; that I, 
who am a high-diver, a long- 
distance swimmer, with a list of unbroken 
records; that I, who used while in training 
for the English Channel events to walk twenty- 
five miles a day, a mere constitutional, should 
have been an almost hopeless cripple in my 
childhood. But such was the case ! 

I was born in Sydney, New South Wales, 
11 umty-um " years ago. My father was a 
typical Australian. My mother was Alsatian 
and French. They let me walk when I was 
nothing but a baby, and my feet got turned 
in and my knees bulged out from overweight, 
so that I had to wear iron braces to my hips. 
I was very sensitive about my poor little 
deformed legs, and I was permitted to wear 
long dresses to hide them. These braces 
hurt me dreadfully, especially the one on 
my left leg, and 1 used to hide in cupboards 
and take them off whenever I could do so* 
Further, to discourage me in any hope of 
ultimate recovery, I was told that my bones 
had chalk in them. And I dare say, if I 
had !>een left to my own devices, I should 
be hobbling about to this day in my leather 
and steel contraptions, instead of playing 
tennis or taking twenty-five mile M consti- 
tutionals." - 

But one day when I was five years old my 
iad infQTm^JM^taiJ^^^^lfe swimming 




lessons. Now, another paradox in my career 
was the fact that when a little child I was 
terribly afraid of the water. I don't know 
why. It may have been my helplessness, 
or it may have been the fear that I would 
have to expose my crippled legs. 
* I pleaded with my dad not to make me 
swim, but he urged that he and the doctor 
had talked the matter over, and had decided 
that swimming was the only thing that would 
help me. So I was taken to Cavill's Baths 
in Sydney and taught to swim. The other 
members of my family had learned in four 
or five lessons, but it took me eighteen. 
And, let me tell you, I was taught correctly, 
which is a great essential. 

I cannot describe the joy I felt as I realized 
that, little by little, strength was beginning 
to creep into my legs, unhampered while I 
was in the water. No one but a jcripple 
could understand it. With strength came 
hope, and hope, reaching, gave me more 
strength, and presently my legs began to take 
on normal shape. 

At the same time I was given exenrses in 
calisthenics. I would hold: on to a table and 
an attendant would pull my legs backward, 
forward, and sideways. It was not until I 
was thirteen years old that my legs were 
practically straight, and for some years after 
that my left leg was still susceptible to any 
unusual strain when I was very tired.. I was 
compelled to wear high shoes until I was 
eighteen, and to this I attribute the fact of 
my small ankles. 

All the time the aquatic side of me was 
gaining the ascendancy. I had become a 
regular duck in the water. I began by doing 
hundred-yard stunts — sprints, if you please — 
fetching or under-water swimming, and all 
that sort of thing. Then I went in for the 
endurance side of it. Before long I could 
swim a mile,- then two ; and after a while I 
did ten miles near Melbourne on the Yarta. 

These feats presently began to attract 
attention. The papers took me up, and when 
I'd been sufficiently advertised to make it 
worth while, I was engaged by the manage- 
ment of an aquarium out there, and got five 
pounds a week, which I thought was 

I Leave Home to Set Out to Face the World. 

Now, Australia is a very big country, but 
very small in possibilities — the kind of pos- 
sibilities I was looking for. I had decided by 
this time that I could do great things in the 
water, and I realized that my best chance 
was to go to one of the big countries, prefer- 

ably England or America, where sporting 
events yield the widest reputation and the 
most money. So dad and I decided to go 
to England. 

But for a long time we could find no one 
in England to take a professional interest 
in me. They didn't , understand us. Pre- 
sently, what little money we were able to 
bring with us gave out. We got into such 
desperate straits that we had to take rooms 
in quite a poor neighbourhood. 

Dad used to put on his Best clothes and 
make the rounds of the managers* offices 
with me every morning, but he couldn't 
tell them that we were living in such a poverty- 
stricken place, for that would have condemned 
us at once in their eyes. There was a comical 
side to it, too. A manager would begin, 
11 I'll drop you a line," and dad would hastily 
interpose, " No, no ! — you see, we may be 
moving — I'll come round to-morrow or next 
day." Dad was a good actor at that ! 

The managers would listen to us and ask 
what I could do, then shake their heads 
dubiously. No one of them wanted to turn 
his stage into a tank — which meant money 
and a heap of inconvenience — " just to see 
a woman make a fish out of herself ! " 

That's the way they put it. 

Nor could I get them to take any interest 
in the records I'd made in Australia. They 
wouldn't bank on them. So we went the 
rounds, day after day, without any luck ! 

A Twenty-five-Mil© Swim to Attract Attention. 

Finally, just to make the English people 
take notice of what I was doing and could 
do, I swam down the Thames from Putney 
Bridge to Blackwall, something like twenty- 
five miles. It is not a hard swim, since the 
tide carries you along so swiftly, but a dirty 
one, with so piany nasty little boats and all 
the rest of it. I came out with my face 
black from Thames River mud. 

Shortly after this performance, the sporting 
man of one of the daily papers took an interest 
in my enterprise. He examined my records, 
and, after some thought, decided to chance 
it. " I'll tell you what I'll do," said he. " If 
you'll try the English Channel I'll ' run f 

Heavens and earth ! That meant the 
" great event," the event that occurs only 
once a year ! Dad and I stood there dumb- 
founded ! 

The sporting editor rattled on, "I'll give 
you eight pounds a week " (I caught my 
breath), " and you'll train under these con- 
ditions : you go down to Dover, and I'll 





announce from day to day that you're to 
swim from one summer resort to another. 
For instance s from Deal to St, Margaret's 
Bay first, and so on and so on. We'll tell 
r em just what time you're goin ? to start and 
what time you're goin' to get to the other 
place. All the people of both towns will 
be on hand to watch the game. Well boom 
vou for all we're worth. 
Will you do it ? " 

Would I do it ! I 
summoned what non- 
chalance 1 could and 
told him I thought 
the terms were satis- 

* £ Now look here," 
he went on. " I don't 
want you to make a 
fool of me or my paper. 
When you go in for 
the big event in the 
Channel you may or 
may not win ; but I 
want you to stop in 
the water a long 
enough time to justify 
my confidence in you, 
111 pay you so much 
for the first three 
hours* If you stay in 
four hours, I'll give 
you so much more ? 
and I'll increase the 
amount for each 
additional hour you're 
in the water." 

The newspaper paid 
our fares to Dover^ which was to be our 
headquarters, and we reached that place with 
exactly one ha'penny in our pockets, We had 
no luggage— which meant we should probably 
have to pay in advance at any boarding-house. 
Things looked black. 

Presently dad decided to go to one of the 
best houses in the place. That was just 
like him. We walked boldly in and demanded 
—demanded, mind you — to see some rooms. 
Very well ! We were shown them. Dad 
sked me in a very dignified manner whether 

thought they would suit, 

" I think so/' said I y trying to appear 
tone too eager. 

*' How much ? " said dad, turning to the 

u Two guineas each per week." And we 

ith only a ha'penny and nothing coming 
i for seven days ! 

At this point dad did a fine piece of acting. 


He told the landlady that a well-known 
newspaper was backing me to swim the 
Channel, and what our plans were. She 
listened intently, and was so much impressed 
that when dad thrust his hand into his pocket, 
observing in a very lordly way, u Perhaps 
I had better give you a cheque/' she was 
quite profuse in her refusal to take it. 

But we didn't dare 
to ask for any loan, 
however smalL We 
even bought no news- 
papers for the whole 

During the six 
weeks we were in 
Dover I swam an 
average of seventy- 
five miles a week, and 
some days walked no 
less than twenty-four 
miles , walking being 
splendid exercise for 
a swimmer. On one 
occasion I swam from 
Dover to Ramsgate, 
a distance of twenty- 
four miles, and after 
I had done that I felt 
that I was more or 
less ready lor the 
Channel experiment. 

There were seven 
of us that made the 
start for the Channel 
swim that night. 
One of these was 
Burgess, who after- 
ward actually did swim from England to 
France j in twenty-three and a half hours, 
Wolff, who was a very fast swimmer, 
almost succeeded. 

A Terrific Swimming Contest in the English 

We didn't all start together in a bunch. 
The swimmers, with their little bands of 
friends and backers, and the representatives 
of the different papers who were u running M 
them were more than a mile apart "n some 
cases. I started from Dover, others from St. 
Margaret's Bay t three miles o! T while some 
started from points farther along the coast. 
The reason for each having a different point 
of departure from the others was that each 
had studied the coast and the tides and had 
his opinion as to the most advantageous point 
of departure. You see, vour course is not a 

strai ^N^R!li¥?fF^!flG^ h were onIy 



a matter of swimming twenty-two miles, the 
distance from Calais to Dover, the task would 
not be so difficult, even if the sea were a bit 
choppy. But having to zigzag by reason of 
the tides, the actual swimming distance 
across the Channel is something more than 
forty miles. 

It was about two o'clock in the morning 
when we assembled on the beach. Channel 
swimmers always start in the middle of the 
night in order to get the hardest three or 
four hours of the work done while they feel 
most fit. Then, when their strength and 
courage begin to wane, daylight comes and 
gives them new hope and vigour. The first 
two hours of a long-distance swim are very 
difficult. It takes one that long to settle 
down to steady work, to get one's pace, to 
feel confident that one is doing the regulation 
twenty-eight strokes t<J the jprinute. 

After the pores of my skin had been rubbed 
full of porpoise oil and my goggles glued on, 
I was ready. The men, who started from 
different points along the coast, wore no 
clothes, but I was compelled to put on a 
bathing suit. Small as it was, it chafed me. 
When I finished, my flesh under the arms 
was raw and hurt fearfully. 

We were off. I was accompanied by a 
steam- tug and a row-boat, as was each of 
my rivals. I swam practicaMy between 
the two, the steam vessel keeping some three 
hundred feet off, so that I would not be affected 
by the wash, and the smaller craft about half 
that distance, always ready to come to my 
instant aid, should I need it. 

One starts out absolutely alone, so as 
to have everything authentic. No one is 
allowed to give you the slightest assistance. 
If you so much as touch the boat or rest 
your fingers on the tip of an oar you're 
" declared out." Every half-hour the big 
boat slows down and you swim alongside, 
and they pass you a long-snouted chemical 
cup containing hot soup or chocolate, which 
you snatch as they let go of it. Or they hand 
you tiny inch-square sandwiches from the 
end of a long stick. 

Getting Sea-sick while Swimming. 

A manufacturer had supplied me with a 
good deal of chocolate as an advertisement, 
and I used it. But I am a " liverish " 
person, and so I'd been out only four hours 
when the chocolate and the chop of the water 
made me very sea-sick. From then on, for 
the rest of the swim, I was sea-sick every 
half hour. But I stuck it out for six and three- 
quarter hours. You will wonder that I 

remained in the water so long, suffering from 
sea-sickness and the chafing of my bathing 
suit, and cold and weariness. But dad and 
I were desperately poor — we must have 
money. And I kept saying to myself, " The 
longer you stick, the more you get ! " 

For this attempt at swimming the Channel 
I got thirty pounds. And I lost seven 
pounds of flesl) during the swim. 

The other contestants were in the water 
longer than I was, but not one of them got 
so far, though they were all men. The winner, 
so far as endurance was concerned, was a 
Yorkshireman, who was well-trained and had 
a good " tummy." And, believe me, a good 
" tummy " is very essential for that kind of 
a contest. One must have a good, furnace 
at work, not only to supply one with stearh, 
but to protect oneself against the extreme 
cold of that North Sea water. 

On other occasions I have tried to swim 
the Channel. Once I stayed in the water 
ten and a half hours and got three-quarters 
of the way across. My record — for a woraanr- 
still holds. I had the endurance but not 
the brute strength that must be coupled with 
it. No woman has this combination. That's 
why I say none of my sex will ever accomplish 
that particular feat. 

After this, I went in for long-distance 
swimming entirely. The . Auto, the big 
sporting paper in Paris, was " running " an 
annual event called " The Swim . through 
Paris." The course, a little over seven miles, 
runs practically through the heart of the city. 
Probably half a million people crowd the 
banks of the Seine to witness this contest. ■ 

I entered the race with seventeen men. 
Each swimmer was accompanied by an 
attendant in a little boat, who passed hijn 
things tp eat whenever he wanted them, 
and looked after him generally. In my 
boat were dad, a friend, and two oarsmen. 
As I pushed my way through the dirty water 
of the Seine, they would cry to me, " Come 
on, mademoiselle; you've only one more 
kilometre, two more bridges, that's all ! " 

This was one of those kindly prevarica- 
tions intended to cheer me up. But they 
shouldn't have done it, for I would make a 
dash or sprint — trying to wind up with a 
flourish — and would get out of my stroke 
and use up most of my reserve strength. 
Because the river was full of curves and I 
couldn't see ahead, they fooled me for a 
little while. 

At last, when I thought I'd reached the 
last bridge, and they called out, " Only two 
kilometres more ; ' : I was so disappointed 






that I began to cry. I was worried, too, for 

I was to receive forty pounds for the race if I 

finished—and, as usual, we needed the money ! 

Just then Burgess came along. He had 

arted, handicapped, half an hour behind 

le, but had caught up. He saw that I'd 

en crying, and asked me what was up. 

hen I told him how they'd been fooling 

le, he 'was very sympathetic. M Come on/ ? 

? urged, and swam alongside me, pacing 

\ y and by his chivalry running the risk 

fc-ising the . race himself, for the racers 

hind were coming on apace. 

At the last hundred vards we made a dash 

for it, and touched the goal 
toget h er — a tie ! I here 
were eighteen starters, but 
only four of us finished. 
It was the most thrilling 
race I was ever in ! 

After my Seine swim 
I sought new worlds to 
conquer, or, at least, new 
worlds sought me, for 
Baroness Isa Cescu, the 
best-known Viennese 
swimmer, challenged me 
for a race in the Danube 
from Tuln to Vienna, a 
distance of thirty-six kilo- 
metres, about twenty-two 

The Danube is very 
treacherous. Its waters are 
icy cold and it runs so fast 
that there are dangerous 
eddies everywhere. Half 
the game in swimming that 
course was in knowing your 

Well j we started t swim- 
ming far apart, I had not 
gone far before I found 
myself sucked into a 
shallow whirlpool The 
water was only about six 
inches deep and was whirl- 
ing with great force and 
speed over a bed of sharp 
pebbles. Before I could 
work my way out, my legs 
were one mass of cuts and 

I won the race easily, by 
about three-quarters of an 
hour, I think, 

After a few more contests, 
I gave up long- distance 
swimming and went back 
to the London Hippodrome for the winter. 
But the records I made, for a woman, all hold 
to this day: two, five, and ten mile swims in 
Australia ; Putney Bridge to Blackwall, twenty- 
four miles ; Dover to Ramsgate with a man 
named Wolff, twenty-four miles in four hours 
twenty minutes ; Ramsgate to Margate, ten 
miles ; Dover to Deal, nine miles ; two Channel 
swims ; ** The Swim through Paris," twelve 
kilometres in three hours forty-five minutes ; 
Tuln to Vienna, thirty-six kilometres* 

The following spring dad and I went to 
America, W r e soon found that there was no 

long -^S^*^(^(SPN done ' and M 



we were still very poor I determined to 
capitalize the various water-feats, particu- 
larly high-diving, that I had learned in Aus- 
tralia. That's how I came to be known in 
America as more or less of a water-feat artiste 
than as a long-distance swimmer. 

And as a result, at last I was making good 
money steadily. 

After a season in Chicago I went to Boston, 
where Mr. Keith saw me and offered me sixty 
pounds a week for two shows a day. As it 
meant only fourteen shows a week, I decided 
to take it. So contracts were signed. 

My diving act, the first of the kind to be 
done on the stage, was such a novelty and 
drew such crowds that when I* reached New 
York, after a few weeks on the road, a rival 
manager ofTered me three hundred pounds 
a week to work for him in the summer alone. 
He had no objection to my working for Keith 
in the winter. 

But Keith wouldn't have it. Then I 
decided to break with Keith for the other 
man and work during the summer and lie 
idle in the winter. Keith was furious, and 
the famous lawsuit followed in which Mr. 
Taft, brother to the former President, was 
counsel for Keith. The courts decided that 
the summer arrangement was inequitable. 
Then Keith offered me a two hundred and 
forty pounds a week contract, and I played 
for two years without a day's vacation. 

I remained in vaudeville two and a 
half years, when I realized that my vogue 
was taking a very decided slump, that the 
diving Venus proposition was rapidly becom- 
ing passi. I was being copied all over the 
country. And then, when they tried to cut 
my salary by fifty pounds a week, I realized 
that the end wasx:lose at hand. 

For a long time I had had an idea that I 
couldn't develop in any way except through 
♦motion- pictures. So I tried my fortune 
among the various moving - picture studios. 
But none of the directors seemed to want me. 
Then I asked Captain Leslie * Peacock, a 
successful scenario writer, to write a scenario 
about fairies and mermaids for me. A few 
days later, President Laemmle, of the Univer- 
sal, sent for me. Captain Peacock had talked 
to him about my scheme. While Laemmle 
seemed dubious about my project, he was 
willing to discuss it with me. The outcome 
of our interview was that Captain Peacock 
wrote " Neptune's Daughter." And let me 
say that, although they made two hundred 
thousand pounds out of it, nobody in that 
concern had any faith in the picture until it 
was put on at the Globe Theatre, in New York, 

and they realized what the public thought of 
it. They begrudged every bit of the seven 
thousand pounds that went into it. 

We went to Bermuda to make the picture, 
as that island offered every natural facility 
that was required. It was while engaged on 
this job that the director and myself met 
with an accident which came near putting 
an end to our motion-picture ambitions. We 
were doing an under-water fight scene in a 
large tank, the front of which was a three- 
quarterJnch glass plate. We had asked for 
an inch and a half plate as the smallest thick- 
ness that could safely resist the pressure of 
the water, but were refused on the ground 
that such a thing would be too expensive. 

While we were doing the fight, all of a 
sudden the front wall of the tank burst with 
a report like a cannon. My only thought as 
this happened was to keep my feet and go 
with the great rush of water through the 
hole in the glass, which was surrounded with 
great, jagged points. The outrush carried me 
twenty feet beyoild the tank, where I lay, 
bruised and bleeding, with a great piece of 
flesh cut from my right foot. But the director, 
not having had my water experience, lost his 
head and was drawn through the hole side- 
wise and stranded among a lot of broken 
glass. He looked as if someone had chopped 
him all over with a hatchet. One wound alone, 
running from his armpit to his wrist, required 
forty-six stitches. 

We were both sent to the hospital, where I 
lay with a wounded foot for six weeks, and 
the director remained for five weeks. 

When I had finished my work at Bermuda, 
I wrote down a list of the water-feats I had 
done in " Neptune's Daughter," and deter- 
mined to surpass them in my next piece. 
This I did in " A Daughter of the Gods." 
The principal features of value in the new 
picture are my water-tricks — I invented some 
new ones — and the kiddies. We employed 
about eight hundred children, nearly sixty 
per cent, of whom were under six years old. 

But to sit in the audience and watch your- 
self on the screen is a poor substitute for any- 
one who has been on the other side of the 
footlights. So the stage fascination seized 
me again, and I signed up for another big 
mermaid spectacle. 

The old days of my crippled childhood seem 
unbelievably distant as I write this. My 
early physical misfortune has turned out to 
be the greatest blessing that could have come 
to me. Without it I should have missed the 
grim struggle upward and the reward that 
waited at the end of it all. 



J[ Detective Story of the Trenches. 


Illustrated by ^^arwick Reynolds. 


i Q tot 

1ST ! " The officer gripped 
the sergeant's arm just 
above the elbow, bringing 
his mouth close up to his 
ear. " Don't move." The 
words were hardly breathed, 
so low was the tense, sudden 
whisper, and the two men crouched motion- 
less, peering into the darkness which enveloped 

" Where, sir ? " The sergeant slowly 
twisted his head till it was almost touching 
that of the man beside him ; and he too, 
whose normal voice resembled a human fog- 
horn, scarcely did more than frame the words 
with his lips. 

" Behind that mound of chalk. Several of 
them." The sergeant's eyes followed the 
line of the outstretched hand until they 
picked up the dark, menacing lump in the 
ground twenty feet away. Sombre, grim, 
apparently lifeless, outlined against the night 
sky, it appeared almost monstrous in size to 
the men who lay on the edge of a shell-hole 
with every nerve alert. A bullet spat over 
them viciously, but they did not alter their 
position — they knew they were not the 
target ; and from their own lines came the 
sudden clang of a shovel. All around them 
t b night was full of vague, indefinable 
ises ; instinctively a man, brought sud- 
nly into such a place and ignorant of his 
lereabouts, would have known that there 
re men all around him — men whom he 
nld not see, men who flitted through the 
idows bent on mysterious tasks, men who 
)ved silently with eyes strained to pierce 
* darkness. Behind the German lines a 
nch tramway was in use; the metallic 

Copyright in 

rumble of the trolleys on the iron rails came 
continuously from the distance. And sud- 
denly from close at hand a man laughed. 

" Do you see them ? " Once again the 
officer was whispering, while he still grasped, 
almost unconsciously, the sergeant's arm. 
" There— there ! Look ! " 

Two or three shadowy blobs seemed to 
move uncertainly above the edge of the chalk 
mound and then disappear again ; and a 
moment afterwards from almcst on top of 
them came a hoarse, guttural whisper. The 
officer's grip tightened convulsively — the night 
of a sudden seemed alive with men close to 
them, pressing around them. Almost in- 
voluntarily he got up and moved back a few 
steps, still peering, straining to see in the inky 
blackness. Something loomed up and bumped 
into h\m, only to recoil with a muttered oath ; 
and even as he realized it was a German he 
heard his sergeant's low voice from a few 
feet away. " Where are you, sir ? Where 
are you ? " The next moment he was back 
at his side. 

" Get back your own way," he whispered. 
" We've bumped a big patrol. Don't fire." 
And as he spoke, with a slight hiss a flare 
shot up into the night. 

Now, had it not been for that one untimely 
flare, this story would never have been 
written. Indecent curiosity in other wan- 
derers' doings in No Man's Land is an un- 
profitable amusement ; while the sound of 
strafing, to say nothing of revolver-shots, is 
calculated to produce a tornado of fire from 
all directions, administered impartially by 
friend and foe alike. Wherefore it is more 
than likely that but for the sudden ghostly 
light both the Englishmen would have got 



away* As it was, John Brinton, M.C., 
lieutenant in His Majesty's Regiment of 
the Royal Loamshires, found himself crouch- 
ing in a slight dip in the ground and contem- 
plating from a range of four feet no fewer than 
six Huns similarly engaged. There was the 
sharp crack of a revolver, a struggle, a muffled 
cry, then, silence. Half-a-dozen more flares 



went up from each line ; everywhere sentries 
peered earnestly towards the sound of the 
shot, a few desultory rifles cracked, and then 
the night resumed its whispering mystery. 
But at the bottom of the dip five Huns 
lay on the top of a stunned English officer, 
while the sixth lay still and twisted* with 
a revolver bullet in his brain, # 

Twenty minutes 
afterwards the 
sergean t , crawling 
warily on his belly, 
approached a sap- 
head, and after a 
brief word or two 
dropped in, 

" 'Ave you seen 
Mr. Brinton, sir? J * 
he asked anxiously 
of an officer whom 
he found in the 
sap, pessimistically 
smoking a cigarette 
— saps are pessi- 
mistic places. 

"No.* 1 The 
officer looked up 
quickly. * l He was 
out with you, 
wasn't he , Sergeant 
Dawson ? " 

" Yes, sir — on 
patroL We'd just 
a -got to that there 
chalk 'umrnock, 
when we ran into 
some of *em, ? E 
said to me, ' Get 
back/ 'e said, 
( your own way ' ; 
and then they put 
up a flare. I 
couldn't see 'ini, 
as 1 was lying doggo 
in a J ole,but I 'eard 
a revolver -shot 
about ten yards, 
awav, I looked 
round when the 
flare was out, but 
couldn't see him, 
nor 'car him. So I 
thought *e might 
'ave got back." 

"Pass the word 

along for Mr. 

Brinton." The 

officer went out of 

sap into the 





fire-trench. " And get a move on with it." He 
stood for a few moments looking thoughtful. 
" I hope," he muttered to himself — ■ ' I hope 
the old boy hasn't been scuppered." 

But the old boy had been scuppered. A 
runner failed to discover him in the trench ; 
two strong patrols scoured the ground around 
the chalk 'ummock and drew blank. And 
so, in the fullness of time, there appeared in 
the Roll of Honour the name of Lieutenant 
John Brinton, of the Royal Loamshires, under 
the laconic heading of " Missing, believed 
Prisoner of War " ; which is the prologue of 
this tale of the coalfields of France. 

The part of the line in which the Royal 
Loamshires folind themselves at the time of 
the unfortunate matter of John Brinton, 
M.C., was somewhere south of La Bassee and 
somewhere north of Loos — closer identifica- 
tion is undesirable. It is not a pleasant part 
of the line, though there are many worse. 
The principal bugbears of one's existence are 
the tunnelling companies, who without cessa- 
tion practise their nefarious trade, thereby 
causing alarm and despondency to all con- 
cerned. Doubtless they mean well, but their 
habit of exploding large quantities of ammo- 
nal at uncertain hours and places does not 
endear them to the frenzied onlookers, who 
spend the next hour plucking boulders from 
their eyes. In addition there is the matter 
of sandbags. The proximity of a mine-shaft 
is invariably indicated by a young mountain 
of these useful and hygienic articles, which 
tower and spread and expand in every direc- 
tion where they are most inconvenient. I 
admit that, having placed half the interior 
of France in bags, the disposal of the same 
on arriving in the lighi of day presents 
difficulties. I admit that the fault lies 
entirely with the harassed and long-suffering - 
gentleman who boasts the proud title of 
" spoils officer." I admit — —but I grow 
warm, in addition to digressing unpardon- 
ably» Let us come back to our sheep — in 
this case the Loamshires. 

In their part of the front line mining 
activity was great. A continuous group of 
craters stretched along No Man's Land, 
separating them from the wily Hun, for half 
the battalion front — a group which we will 
call Outpost. The name is wrong, but it will 
serve. To the near lips of each crater a sap 
ran out from the front line, so that merely the 
great, yawning hole lay between the sap-head 
and the corresponding abode of the Germans 
on the other lip. Each night these sap-heads 
were held by a small group of men armed 

with Verey lights, bombs, bowie-knives, and 
other impedimenta of destruction ; while 
between the saps the trench was held but 

v lightly, in some cases not at all. The idea of 
concentrating men in the front line has long 
been given up by both sides. 

If, therefore, one strolls along the firing- 
line — a tedious amusement at all times — it 
is more than likely that one will find long 

, stretches completely deserted. The scene is 
desolate ; the walk is strangely eerie." Walls 
of sand-bags tower on each side, in some cases 
two or three feet above one's head ; the 
clouds go scudding by, while the shadows of 
a traverse dance fantastically as a flare comes 
hissing down. The Hun is thirty yards 
away ; the silence is absolute ; the place is 
ghostly with the phantoms of forgotten men. 
And sometimes as one walks strange figures 
creep into one's brain. Relics of childish 
fears, memories of the bogey-man who 
waited round the end of the dark passage at 
home, come faintly from the past. And, 
foolish though it be, one wonders sometimes, 
with a sharp, clutching pang of nervous fear, 
What is round the next corner ? 

Nothing — of course not. What should there 
be ? The night is quiet j the trench is 
English. The next party is forty yards 
farther on ; the voices of the last still come 
softly through the air. And yet — and yet { 
But I digress again. 

Now, not one of the least of all the crimes 
of those responsible for the disposal of the 
underworld of France when it comes to the 
surface in sand-bags is the following. (Lest 
anyone may think that I am writing a text- 
book I would crave patience. The scenery 
forms an important part of any play.) Be it 
known, then, that to keep out a bullet some 
four feet of earth is necessary. Less than 

, that, and the bullet will come through and 
impinge with great violence on the warrior 
behind. This fact is well known to all whose 
path in life leads them to the trenches ; but 
for all that Tommy is a feckless lad. In 
some ways he bears a marked resemblance 
to that sagacious bird the ostrich ; and be- 
cause of that resemblance I have remarked 
on this question of dispersing sand-bags in 
terms of pain and grief. The easiest thing to 
do with a sand-bag in a trench if you don't 
want it is to chuck it out. Human nature 
being what it is, the distance chucked is 
reduced to a minimum — in other words, it is 
placed on the edge of the parapet. More 
follow, and they are placed beside it on the 
edge of the parapet ; which causes the inside 
edge of the parapet .to. increase in height, but 



not in thickness. 
In other words, 
after a while the 
top two or three 
layers of bags, 
though looking 
perfectly safe 
from the inside, 
are not bullet- 
proof. Which 
Tommy knows, 
but— well, I have 
mentioned the 

Now this state 
of affairs existed 
in one or two 
places behind 
Outpost craters. 
There were spots 
where the top of 
the parapet was 
not of sufficient 
thickness to keep 
out a rifle-bullet. 
And it was just 
by one of these 
spots that the 
company c o m- 
mandeij going 
round one night, 
Sptumbled on 
something that 
lay sprawling at 
the bottom of the 
trench — an un- 
mistakable some* 
thing. It lay 
half on the fire- 
step and half off, 
midway between 
two saps, and the 
head sagged back 
helplessly. He 
switched on his 
torch, and, 
having looked at 
the huddled form, 
cursed softly 
under his breath. For it was his senior 
subaltern, and a bullet had entered his head 
from behind just above the neck. It had 
come out at his forehead, and we will not 
specify further. 

11 Stretcher-bearers at once." He went 
back to the group he had just left* " Mr. 
Dixon has been shot through the parapet. 
Farther up." 

Digitized by V^K 



t( Killed, sir ? rt The N,C.O, in charge was 
in Dixon's platoon, 

u Yes," The company officer was laconic. 
" Brains blown out. It's that infernal para- 
pet — one sand- bag thick ! What the blazes's 
the use of my speaking ? " 

He had had a trying day and his tone may 
be excused, 

44 YouOWtibfiffrfwAyou do nothing. The 




whole company are a set of cursed lazy 
loafers ! " 

Seeing that the men were getting an average 
of six hours' sleep, the remark was hardly 
fair ; but, as I said, the day had been a trying 
one, and this had been the last straw. He 
strode back again t6 the dead subaltern, 
muttering angrily. 

" Poor old man," he whispered, gently, 
lifting the legs on to the fire-step and bending 
over the still form. " Poor old man, you've 
solved the Big Mystery by - now, * anyway/ 1 
The light of his torch fell on the dead man's 
face and he shuddered slightly ; a bullet can 
do a lot of damage. Then he <iimbedon the 
fire-step and . looked over the parapet. Xt 
was a place where the spook party had been 
particularly busy,, and though -the company 
officer was full six foot he could only just see 
over the top j as. a fire-step it was useless to 
anyone but a giant from a freak show. 

" Halloa ! What's happened ? " A voice 
behind him made him turn round. 

"That you, t)ick ? Poor little Jerry 
Dixon's^ been shot through the parapet — 
that's what's happened.** He got down and 
stood at the bott&m of the trench beside 
the second^ri-command. " The three top 
layers there are only one bag thick." Once 
again his language became heated. 

" Steady, old man." Dick Staunton puffed 
steadily at his pipe and looked at the body 
lying beside them. "Were you with him 
when he was hit ? " 

"No. Came round visiting the sentries 
and found him lying here dead." 

" Oh ! " He switched on his torch and 
continued smoking in silence. Suddenly he 
bent forward and peered closely at the ' 
shattered head. "Give me a hand for a 
minute. I want to turn the boy over." 

Faintly surprised, he did as he was bid. 

In silence they turned the body over, and 
again there was silence while Staunton- care- 
fully examined the spot where the bullet had 

41 Strange," he muttered to himself, after 
a few moments, " very strange. Tell me, 
Joe" — his voice was normal again — " exactly 
how did you find him ? What position was 
he in ? " 

44 He was half sitting on the fire-step, with 
his head in the corner and his legs sprawling 
in the bottom of the trench." 

" Sitting ? Then his face was towards 
you ? " 

"Why, yes. Is there anything peculiar in 
the fact ? He'd probably just been having 
a look over the top, and as he turned away to 

get down he was hit through the sand- bags 
in the back of the neck. His head was a bit 
forward as he was getting down, so the bullet 
passed through his head and out of his fore- 

In silence they turned the boy over again and 
covered his face with a pocket-handkerchief. 

44 You're too much of a blooming detective, 
you know, old man. ^fuch police work has 
made thee mad," laughed the company com- 
mander. " What else can have happened? " 

"I'm no detective, Joe." The other man 
smiled slightly. " But there are one or two 
small points of detail which strike me, though 
I can make nothing out of them, I admit. 
First, his height. He's six inches shorter than 
you, and yet you could barely see over the 
top. Therefore, what was he doing trying to 
look over the parapet here, of all places. 
Secondly, the way he fell. A man killed 
instantaneously, and shot through the back 
of his head, would in all probability pitch 
forward oh his face. You say his face was 
towards you, and that he was sitting in the 
corner of the traverse." 

He paused to fill his pipe. 

"jGo on," said the company commander, 
curiously. " You interest me." 

44 The third point is one on which I admit 
that I am doubtful. The bullet wound is 
clean. Now, I am inclined to think — though 
I don't know — that a bullet passing through 
a chalk bag would become jagged, and would 
not be travelling straight when it continued 
its flight. However, I don't attach much 
importance to that. And the fourth and last 
point is almost too trifling to mention. Do 
you notice' anything peculiar about his 
uniform ? " 

The listener flashed his torch over the dead 
officer. " No," he said, at length. " I can't 
say that I do. Except that one of his regi- 
ftiental badges is . missing. I suppose you 
don't mean that, do you ? " The company 
officer laughed irritably. 

44 1 do," returned the other, quietly. " It's 
a point of detail, even if a little one." He 
looked thoughtfully at the man in front of 
him. " Do I strike you as a callous sort of 
devil, old man ? " 

44 You seem to be treating the boy rather 
on the line of a specimen for improving your 
detective powers." 

44 Perhaps you're right." Staunton turned 
away. " But I didn't mean it that way — 
quite. Sorry, Joe ; the boy was a pal of 
yours ? " 

" He was — ajid- a .rattling good boy as 





" God rest his soul." The second-in-com- 
mand spoke low. Then, with a final salute 
to the youngster whose soul had gone to the 
Valhalla of fighting men, he turned away and 
vanished into the night. 

The next day the company commander 
came round to battalion headquarters. 

" My two best subalterns," grunted the 
colonel in disgust, u within two, days. Most 
annoying. Poor boys — toppers both of them. 
You'd go quite a way, Dick, before you 
bettered Brinton and Dixon." 

" You would," affirmed the second-in- 
command. " Quite a way." 

" And with all your theorizing last night, 
old man," remarked the captain, slyly, " we 
both forgot the obvious solution. He got on 
the fire-step, found he couldn't see over — so 
he clambered up on top. Then when he was 
getting down he was hit, and slithered into 
the position I found him in." 

Staunton regarded the speaker through a 
haze of tobacco smoke. " I wonder," he 
murmured at length. " I wonder." 

He did not state that during the morning 
he had made a point of interrogating Jerry 
Dixon's servant. And that worthy — an old 
and trusted soldier — had very positively 
denied that either of the pelicans rampant, 
which formed the regimental badge, had 
been missing from his master's coat the 
previous evening. 

"Now, Mr. Brinton's coat, sir," he re- 
marked, thoughtfully, " that did 'ave a badge 
off, that did. But 'is servant ! " He snorted 
and dismissed the subject scornfully. 

As I say, the major did not mention this 
fact. After all, it was such a very small 
point of detail. 

To the frivolous-minded Dick Staunton 
was at times the cause of a certain amount 
of amusement. Originally in the Army, he 
had left it when a junior captain, and had 
settled down to the normal life of a country 
gentleman. By nature of a silent disposition, 
he abominated social functions of all sorts. 
He hunted, he fished, and he shot, and spent 
the rest of his time studying the habits of the 
wild. And, as always happens to a man who 
lives much with Nature, his mind gradually 
got skilled in the noticing of small things. 
Little signs, invisible to the casual observer, 
he noticed automatically ; and, without being 
in any sense a Sherlock Holmes, he had 
acquired the habit of putting two and two 
together in a manner that was at times 
disconcertingly correct. 

" Points of detail," he remarked one 

Digitized by dOOg I C 

evening in the dug-out after dinner, " axe 
very easy to see if you have eyes to see them 
with. One is nothing ; two are a coincidence ; 
three are a moral certainty. A really trained 
man can see a molehill ; I can see a moun- 
tain ; most of you fellows couldn't see the 
Himalayas." With which sage remark he 
thoughtfully lit his pipe and relapsed into 
silence. And silence being his usual charac- 
teristic, he came into the battalion head- 
quarters dug-out one evening and dropped 
quietly into a seat, almost unnoticed by the 
somewhat noisy group around the table. 

" Afternoon, Dickie." The sapper officer 
looked up and saw him. " D'you hear we're 
pinching your last recruit ? Jesson — this is 
Major Staunton." He turned to a second 
lieutenant in the Royal Loamshires beside 
him as he made the introduction. 

" How d'you do, sir? " Jesson got up and 
saluted. " I've only just got over from 
England ; and now, apparently, they're 
attaching me to the R.E., as I'm a miner." 

He sat down again, and once more turned 
his attention to that excellent French illus- 
trated weekly without which no officers' mess 
in France is complete. Lest I be run in for 
libel, I will refrain from further information 
as to its title and general effect on officers 

For a few moments Staunton sat watching 
the group, and listening with some amuse- 
ment to the criticisms on those lovely mem- 
bers of the fair sex so ably portrayed in its 
pages, and then his attention centred on the 
revolver he was cleaning. Jesson, a good- 
looking, clean-cut man of about twenty-nine 
or thirty, was holding forth on an experience 
he had had in Alaska, which concerned a 
woman, a team of huskies, and a gentleman 
known as one-eyed Pete, and as he spoke 
Staunton watched him idly. It struck him 
that he seemed a promising type, and that it 
was a pity the Tunnellers were getting him. 

" Haven't you got enough disturbers of the 
peace already," he remarked to the Tunnelling 
officer, " without snatching our ewe lambs ? " 

" We are at full strength, as a matter of 
fact, major," answered an officer covered with 
chalk; " but they dp some funny things in 
the palaces of the great. We often get odd 
birds blowing in. I've been initiating him 
all this morning into the joys of Outpost." 

" And how is jolly old Blighty ? " remarked 
the adjutant. " Thank heavens ! leave ap- 

" About the same." Jesson helped himself 
to a whisky and soda. " Darker than ever 
and taxis an impossibility. Still, I dare say 




I shall be -glad enough to go back when my 
first leave comes due/* he added, with a 

" Is this your first time out ? " ask^d 

%t Yes." Jesson unbuttoned his Burberry 
and took out his cigarette-case. Outside the 
dusk was falling, and he bent forward to get 
a light from the candle flickering on the table 
in front of him. " The very first time. I've 
been on Government work up to now." 

It was at that moment that a very close 
observer might have noticed that Dick 
Staunton's pipe ceased to draw with monot- 
onous regularity ; he might even have heard 
a quick intake of breath. But he would have 
had to be a very close one — very close indeed ; 
for the next instant he was again speaking 
and his voice was normal. 

** I suppose you've been at the depot ? " 
he hazarded. " Who are there now ? " 

*• Oh, the usual old crowd," answered 
Jesson. " I don't expect you know many of 
them y though, dc you, major ? Ginger Stret- 
ton, in the fourteenth battalion — do you know 
him by any chance ? " 

" No — I don't think I do." His face was 
in 'the shadow, but had it been visible a 
slightly puzzled frown might have been seen 
on his forehead. " I suppose they still make 
all you fellows on joining go to the regimental 
tailor, don't they ? " 

Jesson looked a trifle surprised at the 
question. " I don't think they are as particu- 
lar as they were," he returned, after a moment. 
" Personally I went to Jones and Jones." 
He casually buttoned up his mackintosh and 
turned to the Tunneller. " If you're ready, 
I think we might be going. I want to see 
about my kit." He got up as he spoke and 
turned towards the entrance, while at the same 
moment the sapper rose too. " I'd like to 
drop in again, sir, sometimes, if I may." He 
spoke to the shadow where Staunton had 
been sitting. 

" Do." Jesson gave a violent start, for 
the voice came from just behind his shoulder. 
Like the hunter he was, Dick Staunton had 
moved without a sound, and now stood 
diirctly between Jesson and the door. " But 
don't go yet. I want to tell you a story that 
may amuse you. Have some tea." 

" Er — won't it keep till some other time, 
major ? I'm" rather anxious to see about 
my kit." 

" Let the kit keep. Sit down and have 
some tea." 

'* What the devil has come over you, 
Dickie ? " The adjutant was looking 

frankly amazed. " You aren't geherally so 

" That's why to-night my little whim must 
be humoured," answered Staunton, with a 
slight smile. " Sit down, please, Jesson. It's 
quite an amusing little yarn, and I would like 
your opinion on it." 

" No hope for you, old boy. Dickie has 
turned into a social success." The adjutant 
laughed and lit a cigarette and once again 
became immersed in his paper. 

To the casual observer the scene was a 
very normal one. Four men in a dug-out, 
yarning and reading ; while outside the 
occasional whine of a shell, the dirty deeds 
of a Stokes gun, the noises of the trenches 
filled the air. Nothing unusual, nothing out 
of the way except — something, an indefinable 
something. As the sapper said afterwarcfe, 
there must have been something intangible 
in the atmosphere, else why did his pulses 
quicken ? He glanced at the adjutant sitting 
opposite him, engrossed in his book ; he 
looked at Staunton across the table — Staun- 
ton with a slight smile on his lips and his 
eyes fixed on Jesson ; he looked at Jesson 
beside him — Jesson, whom he had met that 
morning for the first time. And all he noticed 
about Jesson was that his left knee twitched 

He ran over in his mind the day's work. 
He had met him at about eleven that morning 
wandering along the support line with an 
officer in the Loamshires whom he knew well, 
who had hailed him and introduced Jesson. 

" A recruit — a new recruit," he had said, 
" for your atrocious trade. He's just left old 
pimple-faced Charlie, who was writing returns 
in triplicate as usual." 

Now pimple- faced Charlie was his own 
major, who habitually did write returns in 
triplicate ; wherefore, after a few remarks of % 
a casual nature, in which he elicited the fact 
that Jesson was a mining engineer and had 
suddenly been ordered while waiting at the 
base to join the 940th Tunnelling Company, 
he took him in tow and showed him round the 

Mining work was very active in the sector. 
Four or five small mines and one big one were 
going up in the near future, so the tour of 
inspection had been a long one. That his 
companion was not new to the game was 
obvious from the outset ; and his pertinent, 
inquiries anent cross-cuts, listening galleries, 
and the whole of the work in hand had shown 
that he was keen as well. Altogether a 
promising recruit, he had mused ; quite a 

find ' k m\»wHMrf es which ' 



unfortunately, do not go hand in hand quite 
as often as one would like. And now Staun- 
ton and this find of his were facing one 
another in silence across the plank table of 
the dug-out : Jesson with an expression of 
polite indifference, as befitted a subaltern 
compelled to listen to a senior officer's story 
which he didn't want to hear ; Staunton with 
an enigmatic smile. Then of a sudden 
Staunton spoke. 

" Have you ever studied the question of 
the importance of matters of detail, Jesson ? " 
he remarked, quietly, to the impassive figure 
facing him across the table. - 

" I can't say that I have, sir/' answered the 
other, politely stifling a yawn. 

" You should. A most interesting study. 
My story concerns points of detail. The 
imperative thing is to be able to sort out the 
vital points from all the others ; then piece 
them together and arrive at the right answer." 

" It must be very easy to be led astray, I 
should imagine, and arrive at the — er — 
wrong one." Jesson concealed a smile, and 
waited for the major to continue. 

" Yes and no. It's all a matter of prac- 
tice." Staunton's imperturbable voice was 
as quiet as ever. " And, anyway, it's only 
in peace time that it matters very much 
whether one is right or wrong. Nowadays- 
well, c'est la guerre I " He smiled gently. 
" But my story. I want you as an impartial 
observer, just arrived, with an unbiased 
mind, to tell me if you think my joining up 
of two or three points of detail is a sound 
one. Both these officers know the points of 
detail, so your opinion will be more valuable 
than theirs. 

" A few nights ago our battalion had one 
of those unfortunate little contretemps that so 
often happen in war. A subaltern of ours, 
John Brinton by name, went out on patrol 
and never returned. An exhaustive search 
in No Man's Land failed to discover his body, 
so we were reluctantly compelled to conclude 
t! c he was in German hands ; whether alive 
or dead we don't know. There we have 
the first fact in my case. Now for the 

" Two nights after that another of our 
subalterns was killed in a way which struck 
me as peculiar. I will not weary you with 
all the various little points that led me to 
believe that the bullet which killed him did 
not come from the trenches opposite ; I will 
merely say that his position, his height, and 
the depth of the trench were the most obvious. 
And granted that my conclusions were correct, 
strange as it might appear at first sight, his 

death must have been caused at close quarters, 
possibly in the trench itself." 

" Good Lord ! " muttered the adjutant, 
who was now listening with interest. " What 
do you mean ? " 

" Two facts, you see," went on Staunton, 
quietly. " And they would have remained 
unconnected in my mind — Brinton's capture 
and Dixon's death — but for a small point of 
detail. Dixon's jacket was without the left 
regimental badge when his body was found. 
His servant knows he had them both earlier 
in the day. On the contrary, Brinton had 
lost his left regimental badge for some time. 
Am I interesting you ? " 

" Profoundly, thank you, sir." The man 
opposite smiled amiably. 

" I'm glad of that ; it's an interesting 
.problem. You see the significance of that 
small point about the badges ; the way in 
which it connects very intimately Brinton's 
capture and Dixon's death. So intimately, 
in fact, does, it connect them that one is 
almost tempted to assume that the man 
who killed Dixon was the man in possession 
of Brinton's uniform. Are you with me so 
far ? " 

" The evidence seems a trifle slight," 
remarked Jesson. 

" True ; but then so much evidence is slight 
when the criminal is clever. You see, banking 
on the correctness of the badge deduction, 
the story, as I construct it, seems feasible. A 
German who speaks English perfectly is given 
a nice warm uniform taken from a captured 
British officer. Then he is told to go over to 
the British lines and see what he can find out. 
He comes one night ; perfectly easy, no 
trouble — until walking along the front line he 
meets another officer — alone ; an officer of 
the same regiment as that whose uniform he 
is wearing. Unavoidable ; in fact, less likely 
• tp raise suspicion with the frequent changes 
that occur if he goes to the same regiment 
than if he went to another. But something 
happens : either the other officer's suspicions 
are aroused, or the German does not wish to 
be recognized again by him. The trench is 
quiet ; an occasional rifle is going off, so he 
does the bold thing. He shoots him from 
point-blank range — probably with a Colt. 
Then he takes off the dead man's left badge, 
puts it on his own coat, and disappears for a 
time. Quite easy, especially when the trenches 
are old German ones." 

" Really, major, you seem to have made 
a speciality of detective fiction." 

As Jesson spoke, his eyes for the first time 
left the face cJ: the man opposite him and 




raved towards the door. For the first time a 
sudden ghastly suspicion of the truth entered 
the sapper's brain ; and even as it did so he 
noticed that Staunton's revolver — the cleaning 
finished — pointed steadily at Jesson's chest. 

aware that something unusual was happening, 
and he suddenly stood up. 4< What the devil 
is it, major ? What have you got that gun 

on him for ? " 


Jl For fun, dear boy 3 for fun, It's part of 


41 And the essence of all detective stories is 
the final clue that catches the criminal, isn't 
The revolver moved an inch or two 
further into prominence, 

h ' Good Lord, Dickie ! Is that gun of yours 
loaded ? " cried the adjutant, ia alarm. " And 
fe the first time he also seemed to become 

thtf atmosphere, We've pot to the point, 
haven't we, where — in my story, of course — 
the German dressed in Brin ton's uniform 
comes into the English lines. Now what sort 
of a man would they send in this part of the 
line, where mining actmtjtis great? I con- 
tinue the theory, you see, that's all," 




He looked at Jesson, who made no reply ; 
though without cessation he moistened his 
lips with his tongue. 

" A miner." The adjutant's voice cut in. 
" Go on, for God's sake." 

" Precisely — a miner. The second point of 
detail, and two points of detail are a strange 
coincidence — nothing more. Only — there is 
a third." 

" And three are a moral certainty, as 
you've often said." The adjutant once again 
bent across the table and spoke softly. 
44 Are you fooling, Dickie — are you fooling ? 
If so the joke has gone far enough." 

But the sapper's eyes were fixed on a leg 
that twitched, and they wandered now and 
then to a neck where — even in the dim light 
of a candle — he could see a pulse throbbing — 

" It's not a joke," he said, and his mouth 
was dry. " What is the third point of detail, 

" Yes, what is the third point of detail, 
sir?" Jesson's voice was steady as a rock. 
" I am very interested in your problem." 
He raised his hands from the table and 
stretched them in front of him. Not a finger 
quivered, and with a sublime insolence he 
examined his nails. 

To the sapper there occurred suddenly 
those lines of Kipling : — 

For there is neither East nor West, border nor 

breed nor birth, 
When two strong men come face to face, though 

they come from the ends of the earth. 

He knew now ; he realized the man beside 
him was a German ; he knew that the sen- 
tence of death was very near. What the clue 
was that had given the thing away he hardly 
thought about — in fact, he hardly cared. All 
he knew was that death was waiting for 
the man beside him ; and that his hands 
were steady as a rock. 

Quietly Staunton leant forward and undid 

Jesson's mackintosh. Then he sat back and 
with his finger he pointed at a spot above his 
left breast-pocket. "You have never been 
out to the front, you say ; your coat is a new 
one by Jones and Jones ; and yet — untfl 
recently — you have been wearing the ribbon 
of a medal* What medal, Jesson, what 
medal ? It shows up, that clean patch in the 
light. John Brinton went to Jones and 
Jones ; and John Brinton had a Military 

For a full minute the two men looked into 
one another's eyes— deep down, and read the 
things that are written underneath, be a man 
English or German. Then suddenly Jesson 
smiled slightly, and spoke. 

" You are a clever man, Major Staunton. 
When will the rifle practice take place? " 

Thus it ended, the play.of which John 
Brinton's disappearance formed the prologue. 
But before the curtain rang doWn on the 
epilogue the German told them one or two 
little things : That John Brinton was alive 
and well ; that the existence of Ginger 
Stratton, to whom he had alluded so glibly, 
had only become known to him from a letter 
in Brinton's cpat; that the peculiarities «f. 
pinipie ,- faced Charlie had been force&jtfft- 
him by his guide before they me^ Ste. 
sapper. " ~ " 

"In fact," as the adjutant remarked, *'Ae 
fellow was almost too good a sportsman to 
" But that's the epilogue. ; 

A file of men ; a watery sun just starting 
its day's work ; a raw, chilly morning. In 
front — a man — a man, with a white disc of 
paper pinned over the heart." ; 

A word of command; a. pushing forward 
of safety catches ; a volley; a finish. 

And in a hole in the ground, somewhere 
near Vermelles, " Jesson," of the Royal 
Loamshires, attached R.E., li$s sleeping the 
last great sleep. A 

by Google 

Original from 




By A. Conan Doyle. 

" NO." 

By Eawara Cloaa. 


t h. -it's &mott f ivy 


Is Sir Oliver Lodge right in his opinion that the Dead can communicate 
with the Living ? Most of our readers have formed their o~wn opinions^ but 
nevertheless they will be interested in reading what is to be said for and against 
by two such eminent writers as Sir A, Conan Doyle and Mr, Edward Clodd* 

" YES. 

+ % 




HAVE read Sir Olivtr Lodges 
statement of the causes which 
led him to believe in the con- 
tinuity of life and the possi- 
bility of communication. I 
find myself in complete agree- 
ment with it j because my own 
fences, which now extend over thirty 
rs 3 are corroborative of his own, though 
ely admit that I have never had the same 
^atton in examining phenomena, nor the 

W.— 4b Copyright, tpt; f 

same power of scientific analysis with which 
to weigh the results. Still, so far as I have 
been able to go, I have found the road even 
as he describes itjand as many other travellers 
who are men of conscience and character have 
told the same story I cannot doubt that it is 
true* If human testimony is capable of 
establishing anything, then it has absolutely 
proved the fact of survival. If anyone thinks 
that I exaggerate, let him before expressing 
his thought re.std tlie following fc^oks in the 
by A. Comin Doyle, 



t order giyen: Lodge's " Survival of Man/' 
Hill's ^Psychical Investigations/' Stead's 
" After Death," Lodge's " Raymond." . No 
course of reading will profit them more, and 
when inquirers have finished it they will be 
in a position to dissent or to agree. At present 
it is too often an argument where knowledge 
and experience are on one side while nothing 
but prejudice or misunderstanding is on the , 

Of all these misunderstandings none _ is 
more common or more false than the idea that 
the future of religion is in some way imperilled. 
Spiritualism will destroy no existing religion, 
but it will enrich and revive each and all of 
them. It will assuredly modify details and 
call attention to the essential things which 
all hold in common, rather than to the less 
essential things upon which they differ. To 
that extent it may offend extremists. " It 
will be a new kind of Christianity," said the 
. Bishop of Oxford the other day, in the course 
of an attack upon it. That does, I think, fairly 
well describe it ; but surely the whole earnest 
world is looking for a new kind of Christianity 
which will get more of the real spirit of the 
Founder, and make impossible for ever such 
frightful relapses into the Dark Ages as that 
which our generation has witnessed*. So long - 
as the churches are half empty all over the 
land, it is a new sort of Christianity that is 
called for. Here we have something definite, 
something assured, something which will be 
based upon tangible proof and will combine the 
most advanced science with the most exalted 
morality. Such is the spiritual movement as 
I read it — a fresh influx of inspiration, and far 
the greatest religious event since the coming 
of that Great Spirit Who brought, nearly two 
thousand years ago, the message of gentleness 
and tolerance from which the world seems to 
have profited so little. 

These remarks, however, may be too grave 
for these pages. Let me then imitate Sir Oliver 
and go back in my own memory to some of the 
stages and experiences which have brought me 
where I am. My training was most orthodox 
in the least elastic of all churches, but after 
becoming a medical student I found such 
discrepancies between the new knowledge and 
the old teaching that my views were greatly 
changed. Truth at all cost was my motto, and 
I groped my way through some years of inquiry 
and doubt towards some definite conclusion. 
Alas ! that conclusion was only negative, 
although I never ceased to be a \yhole-hearted 
Theist, seeing signs of divine purpose all 
around me. That the purpose included the 
prolongation of my own minute personality 

after death seemed to me to be entirely un- 
likely and against the whole analogy of Nature, 
so far as I could understand it. The bodily 
senses gave us all our impressions. How then 
could the body di^ and the impressions 
survive ? As well have the electricity going on 
when the battery was smashed. 

Then came my years of reconsideration, 
amazed and reluctant reconsideration, which 
gradually, very gradually, changed to absolute 
conversion as the evidence became stronger 
and my knowledge fuller. I was an omnivorous 
reader, and I chanced upon a biography of 
a Judge Edmonds, of the United States High 
Court, in which that eminent lawyer claimed 
to have kept in. close personal touch with his 
wife for many years after her death. I read 
the book with the pity which the words of a 
well-meaning lunatic would inspire. Only cne 
thing puzzled me. Was the man really mad, 
or was he for some reason lying ? The account 
was very circumstantial, and there could be 
no question of mistake. 

My knowledge of the subject at the time was 
confined to Browning's " Sludge," and to 
occasional police reports of the exposure of 
fraudulent mediums. I thought the whole 
ritual consisted of dark s&nces, floating tam- 
bourines, and absurd messages got by, very 
dubious means. The association of our beloved 
dead with such phenomena seemed impossible, 
and I could not understand how men of 
education could believe such nonsense. I tried 
some table-turning, and got the usual banal 
messages. This deepened my distrust of the 
whole subject. If spirits do exist, I thought, 
they must be something superhuman^ whereas 
these creatures who send such messages, if 
they really come from outside otirselves, must 
rather be subhuman. I thought I had the 
scientific mind, and yet I was really domg, 
as many of my superiors in science were doing, 
the most unscientific thing possible, for I was 
arguing from a supposition instead of from 
a fact. My duty was not to imagine a spirit 
and then judge the messages by that imaginary 
standard, but it was to study the messages, 
presuming that they were genuine, and en- 
deavour to learn the nature of those who stnt 

I learned about this time that a considerable 
number of eminent men had given their 
endorsement to these phenomena; and this 
perplexed me, for I was aware that their 
belief had only come after close investigation, 
I read Wallace's " Modern Miracles," and an 
epitome of Crookes* experiments as published 
in the Quarterly JtmrnM of Science. Here were 

t TJNIWiTfr'™fflP ,lpaMed ' the one ** 



a zoologist, the other as a chemist, and they 
were both convinced. But I do not readily 
surrender my opinions. I preferred to imagine 
that these two eminent men had some blind 
spot in their mental retina. I could not believe 
in life without a physical basis. In this I was 
probably right, but my definition of what 
is physical was too narrow. 

About this time I came into personal con- 
tact with General Drayson, one of the pioneers 
of this movement in England. He was a 
man of great force of character and with a 
singular gift of clear exposition. He gave me 
an interview, in which I laid some at least 
of my difficulties before him. I still remember 
the clever analogies with which he tried to 
xJear my mind. "X°S complain of the low 
level of spiritual messages, 17 lie said. " Are 
you aware that death causes no change in 
the character, and that so long as a stream* pf 
very undeveloped people are passing from 
this world the population of the next will 
contain these folk ? It is they with whom 
you have been in touch. If a man shut 
himself in bis house in this world all his life, 
and then in middle age for the first time put 
his head out of the window, it is probable 
that his first experience of the outer world 
might be some rude remark from a passing 
guttersnipe. If he withdrew his head, shut 
the window, and argued that the outer world 
was a very low-down place which contained 
nothing but guttersnipes, he would argue as 
wisely as you are doing. What you have to 
do is to go farther and see whether you cannot 
get in touch with things higher, not lower, 
than yourself. If you are worthy it will be 
given to you." 

On many other points General Drayson 
instructed me. I was interested but not 
convinced by his remarks. I continued 
to sit at private circles, however, where 
we got messages, some of which seemed 
to be deliberately false, while some were 
striking and elevated. We were working 
without paid assistance, which secures one 
against the trickery of an evil medium, but 
• ^Drives one of the essential help of a 
>d one* 

Lt this stage came two new factors. The 

t was that I joined, and closely followed 

1 work of, the Psychical Society. The 

er, the publication of that great root- 

ok," Hun&n Personality," in which Myers 

Timed up the subject and systematized a 

v science. One fact emerged from his 

arches and was recognized by every mind 

a to evidence. It was the certainty of 

lathy, or the action of mind upon mind 

at a distance, which henceforth was generally 
accepted. I also could not help accepting 
it, and I confirmed it by some personal experi- 
ments. But here was a breach in my wall/ 
for if my spirit here can influence my brother 
in China, then spirit has certain properties 
which are distinct from physical matter as 
we understand it. And if it can operate so 
far from the body, may it not also operate 
when the body has ceased to be ? Once 
grant telepathy, and one has made a step 
which leads more than half-way to the recog- 
nition of survival. No mere analogy of wire- 
less telegraphy will help where, as is so often 
recorded, the figure of the distant communica- 
tor as well as his message is impressed upon 
the recipient. 

Thus it took me many years to get as far 
as telepathy. Many more had passed before 
I could feel that I was sure about survival 
and communication. I could have reached 
conviction much earlier had I used the recog- 
nized methods. An astronomer who discards 
a telescope may expect to be handicapped. 
I pushed caution to anexcess. Since then, how- 
ever, I have had personal experiences which 
I will not enter into at present which leave 
no doubt in my mind. It is treacherous and 
difficult ground, where fraud lurks and self- 
deception is possible and falsehood from the 
other side is not unknown. There are set- 
backs and disappointments for every investi- 
gator. But if one picks one's path one can 
win through and reach the reward beyond — 
a reward which includes great spiritual peace, 
an ^absence of fear in death, and an abiding 
consolation in the death of those whom we 
love. It is, I repeat, this religious teaching 
which is the great gift that has been granted 
in our time. So long as- a man can refer to 
his witnesses and their testimony, I can see 
no reason why he may not adopt it and enjoy 
it without such first-hand experience as may 
take a lifetime to acquire. There is no 
necessity for every man to blaze his own trail. 
All other religious systems have come from 
the East. Here at last is one from the West, 
not supplanting but clarifying and strengthen- 
ing the others. It is the very special glory 
of England that she has done far more than 
any other country to rescue this system from 
being a mere playing with Poltergeists, and 
to dignify it into a scientific philosophy. 
Myers, Gurney, Hodgson, Crookes, Wallace, 
Stead — and, may I add, Oliver Lodge — are 
names which will be for ever associated with 
it. The last inspiration took three centuries 
for its .acceptance. Whej^iwlLitlvs one be 
three centuries from now ? 



■ "NO." 


Author hf lt Myths and Dreams" 



'HEN our 
yield to assurance 
that light has 
come to us on the 
problems of life 
and destiny j we 
incline to banish 
reluctance to bare 
the secrets of 
the soul to our 
fellows ; desire 
and duty alike 
ini[n 1 us to tell 
others by what 
steps we have 
secured a satis™ 
faction which it is 
our joy to share. Hence, many will be grateful 
to Sir Oliver Lodge for breaking through a 
natural reserve to tell them how he has 
attained assurance that life — of " vague and 
indeterminate kind," though he admits it to 
be — continues beyond the grave ; assurance 
that personality and memory persist, and that 
it is possible, in certain circumstances ., to hold 
converse with, or to receive messages from, 
** the departed," This as su ranee , he tells us, 
rests M on a basis of fact and experience. " 

Experience must be ruled out in the inquiry ; 
it is wholly personal. A man tells us that he 
thinks this and feels that, and regulates his 
attitude accordingly; but the experiential is 
not the evidential ; it cannot be matter for 
experiment, and lies outside the province of 
scientific inquiry. Theories broached by 
scientists can be proved or disproved by 
observation and testing ; and, dismissing 
Sir Oliver's " experience," we can deal only 
with the *' fact " on which that experience 
ultimately rests. 

He tells us that the primary impulse 
towards his conviction that the soul is im- 
mortal came from some investigations into 
the validity of so-called " thought-transfer- 
ence " in 1883-84 ; the result of which was to 
satisfy him that there is 3 in certain persons, 
perhaps j he says, derived from 4( animal 
ancestry/' a hitherto unrecognized faculty 
making possible what is called " telepathy/' 
or communication between mind and mind 

" The Stcry of Crmti&n" etc. 

without the intervention of the material 
channel of the senses. The evidence of that 
faculty is denied by the majority of men of 
science. Sir Ray Lankester and Sir £L B. 
Donkin, among these, affirm that M telepathy 
is simply a boldly-invented word for a supposed 
phenomenon which has never been demon- 
strated ; an unfair and unwarranted draft on 
the credit of science which its signatories have 
not met by the assignment of any experimental 
proofs/' Dr, Milnes B ram we J 1 says that 
** after twenty years* search after evidence in 
its favour the results have been invariably 
negative." It is in the coincidental that the 
telepathic assumption has found its warrant ; 
since , as Bacon acutely puts it in his " Essay 
on Prophesies/' " first that men marke when 
they hit and never marke when they rnisse." 
So much ^ then } for the basal EC fact " on which 
Sir Oliver builds a fragile structure, } 

Following on this preliminary inquiry, he 
joined the Society for Psychical Research, 
bringing thereto a mind " open to evidence/ 1 
This evidence was, in the main, furnished by 
a medium j Mrs, Pi per , who came here from 
that land of " many inventions " and market 
of medium-supply, America, The result of 
numerous sittings with her in her trance- 
state, or out of it, was to convince him that 
her organism was the vehicle of communica- 
tions from the de parted , conveying facts 
known or unknown, the latter being sub- 
sequently verified. While he pours encomiums 
on her, and will not admit " an iota of fraud JP 
in her, he betrays a certain uneasiness, because 
*' sometimes the alien body seemed intractable 
and lucidity was unattainable." Guilelessly 
he gives his case away when he suggests 
what, as will be seen presently > others found 
to be the fact, that there was sometimes 
u guessing on the part of the control "— 1\*,, 
the second personality through whom the 
spirit communicates with the inquirer. At 
a seance there are, at least, four characters; 
(1) the inquirer^ (2) the medium, (3) the con- 
trol, (4) the spirit ; and, in my belief, the last 
" three are one." The controls, anyway, are 
a very mixed lot, ranging from philosophers 
and parsons to little Indian girls and char- 
women, and, as spiritualists admit, the in- 
quirer cannot be sure, when he desires to be 
put into touch with a discarnate relative or 
frifcttUy EfiEiiLIV &UrMIGMl^N spirit may not 



personate them. Is this among the " facts " 
whereon conviction rests ? Sir Oliver tells 
the truth, but not the whole truth ; he sup- 
presses what candour should have included. 
In 1894 he attended stances given by a 
Neapolitan medium, Eusapia Palladino, . at 
the house of Professor Richet on the He 
Roubaud, near Hy&res. His verdict was that 
the woman's performances were due to super- 
normal agency ; in the movements of chairs 
and other objects not near her he saw evi- 
dences of a " scientifically unrecognized truth." 
In 1895 she was brought to Cambridge, and 
detected by Dr. Hodgson and Mr. Maskelyne 
as a vulgar trickster. Of course, Sir Oliver 
had to admit that he had been hoodwinked, 
and in the Daily Chronicle of November 5th, 
1895, he expressed his regret that " on the 
strength of a few exceptionally good sittings 
[i.t., when Eusapia was at her best in " deceiv- 
ing the very elect "] he had made a report 
testifying to her genuineness." If an Italian 
peasant-woman could thus humbug this dis- 
tinguished physicist, why not also the more 
astute American, Mrs. Piper ? Here is what 
a group of competent, unprejudiced witnesses 
testify concerning that medium. Sir George 
Darwin : " Almost every statement made by 
Mrs. Piper could have been given if she could 
have discovered my name Twhich, unknown 
to him, she had done], t remain wholly 
unconvinced either of any remarkable powers 
or of thought-transference." Dr. Lund : 
" She rarely told me anything of importance 
right off the reel, but carefully fished, and 
then followed up a lead. . . . In some points 
she was entirely out of it." The late Professor 
William James (the eminent psychologist) : 
" I was too disgusted with Phinuit's [Mrs. 
Piper's chief ' control '] tiresome twaddle 
even to note it down." Dr. Walter Leaf: 
u Several instructive instances point directly 
against any knowledge derived from the 
spirits of the dead. The effect which a careful 
study of all the reports of the English sittings 
has left on my mind is that Phinuit is only a 
name for Mrs. Piper's secondary personality." 
Professor MacAlister : " Mrs. Piper is quite 

* j-awake enough all through to profit by 
s jestion. ... If you ask my private 
c lion, it is that the whole thing is an 
i osture, and a poor one." Andrew Lang : 
1 *e exhibits a survival of recrudescence of 
s ige phenomena, real or feigned, of con- 
^ $ion and sensory personality.." Added to 
t , Mrs. Piper, in October, 1901, made a 
c fession denying that she had had any 
c munications from the departed when she 

* ;n , the trance-state. She afterwards re- 

canted, and a defender of the faith explained 
that her ?< statement represented simply a 
transient mood." But the fact of the con- 
fession remains, and the transient, probably, 
was the true. Let Sir Oliver and the rest of 
the credulous explain it as they may or can ; 
ingenuity will never fail them. 

The phenomena of Spiritualism — Spiritism 
it should, more correctly, be called — are two- 
fold : physical and psychical ; but they are, 
more or less, intermingled. The physical 
include raps, table-turning, slate-writing, 
materialization, and photographing, of spirits, 
mediums floating in the air, or prolongating 
their bodies, and all the apparatus of ghosts 
and haunted houses. The psychical includes 
clairvoyancy, crystal-gazing, telepathy, hal- 
lucinations and the trance-state, and automatic 
writing of mfediums. It has much in common 
with Theosophy and Christian Science — twin 

As a modern movement, Spiritualism began 
in America in 1848. Its inception was in 
fraud, and a tainted atmosphere has clung 
round it from that time to the present. Its 
history is a record of the detection and con- 
fession, one after another, of a pact of sorry 
rascals of both sexes, some of whom have 
been committed to prison as rogues and 
vagabonds. The list is too long to be quoted 
here. At the start the tricks were chiefly 
of the horse-play sort, many of the performers 
being of neurotic type, mingled with cunning, 
like the appropriately-named Fox girls, with 
whom the movement began, and who, ulti- 
mately, confessed the fraud. Rappings and 
table-tiltings still hold a place, but the other 
physical manifestations have vanished ; the 
larger number of spiritualists are, discreetly, 
silent about them. It is not convenient to 
recall the fact — not an isolated instance — 
that the distinguished physicist, Sir William 
Crookes, averred that he had seen the spirit 
of one Katie King at a stance given by Miss 
Florence Cook at his house in ^fay, 1874, the 
same Florence Cook having been seized by 
the hand and waist when personating Katie 
by a Mr. Volckman five months before Sir 
William told his wonderful story ! 

As for spirit-photographs, although the 
method by which these are faked has been 
admitted by their producers, their genuine- 
ness still finds defenders in men even of the 
intelligent type of Mr. Edward Carpenter, 
who adds to his gullibility acceptance of 
the statement of an American doctor that 
he has proved the existence of the soul 
because he finds a decrease of weight of 
from half an ounce to an cuncs In the body 



when placed in the scales at the moment 
of death. 

It is with the psychical phenomena that 
spiritualists are now mainly concerned, and 
when we examine the materials for belief in, 
and knowledge of the conditions under which 
the departed exist in, another life, which these 
supply , one is staggered that minds of lofty 
conceptions and ideals can build on them the 
superstructure of personal immortality. From 
the enormous mass of communications pur- 
porting to come from discarnate spirits not 
an ennobling nor high-toned message can be 
extracted ; all, all is nauseating^ frivolous, 
mischievous j spurious drivel- Through his 
control, a little Indian girl, Feda, Raymond 
Lodge tells his father that the houses in the 
Beyond are made " from sort of emanations 
from the tarth n \ that his white robe is 
** made from decayed worsted on your 
side " ; that he has his " little deggie " 
with him ; that cigars made "out of essences 
and ethers and gases " are provided for 
smokers , and " whisky-sodas " for drinkers ! 
Faugh ! 

One damning fact must be added, Mr. 
Myers j the apostolic chief of the lt new revela- 
tion/' as Sir Conan Doyle rhetorically called 
it when reviewing Li Raymond/ 1 left behind 
him, in the custody of the Society for Psychical 
Research, a sealed letter, the test of his sur- 
vival being that its contents should tally with 
a message which he would send from the 
spirit- world. When, on December 13th, 1904, 
the seal was broken , there was found to be 
no resemblance between those contents and 
a communication given in a script which an 
automatist, Mrs. Verrall, was supposed to 

have received from the discarnate Myers- A 
like failure attended the case of one Hannah 
Wild, an American discarnate spirit. Yet the 
game goes on merrily; the "new revelation 77 
is accepted as supplemental to, or even super- 
seding, the " old." 

To what manifold causes can we trace these 
delusions of men who, followed as authorities 
in expert matters, are, therefore, looked up 
to as authorities on everything else? "If 
they do these things in a green tree, what shall 
, be done in the dry ? " 

Not on fact, but on sentiment ; not on 
reason, but on emotion, do these delusions 
build their unstable foundations. Impelled 
by the wish to believe, the dupes attend 
seances by mediums, who, like the spirits they 
pretend to represent, " love darkness rather 
than light, because their deeds are evil." 
r lhe bias-ruled attitude of the inquirers is 
wholly uncritical ; the power of suggestion 
paralyzes them ; they are prepared to see and 
hear and believe all that they are told, and 
the insatiate appetite for the marvellous is 
satisfied to repletion. All this is emphasized 
when the sorrowing and the bereaved seek 
consolation from those to whom they pay 
their fees to obtain it. Applicable to-day is 
the shrewd comment made by Reginald Scot 
three hundred p £nd thirty years ago in his 
11 Disco verie of Witchcraft.' 1 Speaking of 
Saul's visit to the Witch of Endor, he says : 
" He that looketh into it advise dlie shall see 
that Samuel was not raised from the dead, 
but that was an illusion or cousenage practised 
by the witch," 

To the question, " Is Sir Oliver Lodge 
right ? *' the emphatic answer is, No I 


rHE First of July will witness the opening of National Baby Week t a 
week during which great efforts will be made throughout the land to bring 
vividly before the public mind the tremendous and solemn responsibility 
for the proper care of infants, which rests not on mothers only t but also on the 
community at large* 

Our hearts are saddened beyond expression by the appalling and growing 

wastage of war. But while war counts its victims by thousands, dirt, disease, 

and ignorance number theirs by tens of thousands. In four years England and 

Wales lost nearly 800,000 babies by death a lone ; while a far larger number began 

life crippled and incapacitated in mind and body owing to enervating environ* 

me*it and inefficient supervision. It is a national duty to save 

these helpless infants, rescue them from a doom of misery, and fit 

them, mentally and physically, to become vigorous, capable citizens. 

In the United States of America, where the problem t$ far 

less acute , much has been done to check infant mortality. The 

conscience of England needs only to be aroused to ensure still 

greater re suits. Various societies are at work, but let no one 

imagine enough is being done while so many little ones die in 


Will you help to forward the cause, first, financially ; secondly, by making 

known to your friends the vitally important aims of the Nation at Baby Week 

Coimcil ; and thirdly, by enrolling yourself at 6 t Holies Street, Ctefi»j| A»flf) W. t as a recruit in this 





Illustrated by TKomas Henry. 

ALLY was a nurse girl, the 
seventeenth since the baby 
came, about thirteen months 
before. But we realized that 
at last we had found a 
treasure. Sally was inven- 
tive. The kaleidoscopic re- 
pertoire of amusement which she furnished 
for our tootsy-wootsy was something to 
command the admiration of the most callous- 
brained pessimist who never smiled. 

This aggregation of inventive genius had 
been purchased at a weekly instalment of 
sixteen shillings. Cheerfully we should have 
made it a pound on demand within a week 
after her arrival. 

But Sally seemed to be devoid of the con- 
tamination of bribery, and, indeed, she spent 
her money like a lord, more than half of 
her weekly "pay going for things of one kind 
or another for the amusement of our little 
one. A bus ride to the park every day for 
the pleasure of our baby formed one of her 
personal extravagances. Baby soon became 
so much attached to her that mamma was 
no longer interesting. 

One thing soon became apparent. Sally 
had the going-out habit. She wanted to be 
away from the house more than half the time, 
but, as our loved one always came back from 
these little excursions in excellent spirits, and, 
barring the harassing fears that baby might 
contract some of the many contagious or 
infectious diseases of childhood, this habit of 
y*s was not at all inconvenient to the 

nother thing which recommended Sally 

the habitual neatness of her person, and 

it - became an interesting mystery to us 

the matter of how she could spend from 

it to twelve shillings per week solely and 

jelfishly for the amusement of our little 

, and dress herself with such taste on the 


lally, we decided that Sally must be 

getting credit somewhere, and that we should 
mise her wages in order that she might be 
enabled to meet her obligations. 

But about this time I saw Sally emerging 
from a bank one day. I was some distance 
away and unobserved by her. 

" Ah," I exclaimed under my breath, " she 
is borrowing of the bank." 

The cashier of this bank was a particular 
friend of mine, and I determined to learn 
something of Sally's financial operations. 
This I had no trouble in dcing, and seen 
learned to piy amazement that Sally was not 
a borrower, but a depositor, to the extent of 
eight or ten pounds a week. 

My wife and I held a consultation over the 
matter, for the mystery had deepened. Why 
one who could indulge the daily extravagances 
of Sally, and yet deposit eight pounds per 
week, should hire herself out at a wage of 
sixteen shillings, was amazingly mysterious — 
and yet Sally was not a thief. Not the 
smallest item of anything of value had been 
missed from the house, and no coins or notes 
were ever kept about the place. 

So the mystery of Sally deepened. But, 
notwithstanding this, Sally was by incal- 
culable odds the best nurse we ever had 
possessed, or ever could hope to have, and we 
determined that nothing should dispossess us 
of her services — no, not if it became necessary 
to raise her wages to two pounds per week, 
which extravagance I could ill afford. 

So Sally remained, keeping up her usual 
programme, only inventing new means of 
amusement every day. How long we should 
have kept her I do not know. But accident 
plays a large part in the movement of human 
affairs, and it was an accident which led fo 
the separation of our Sally from us. ~ 

An employi from our mills had been 
seriously crushed in a dray collision in the 
East-end, and I had gone over to investigate 
the responsibility for the accident. This 
matter bemg soon concluded,, I was returning 



to the office, when I met Jenkins, a friend of 
mine. Jenkins likes a circus performance 
better than anything ; and the district was 
noted for its attraction for showmen of ore 
kind or another, 

" Halloa, old man ! " called Jenkins from 
across the street ; *' wait a moment." 

I waited, and Jenkins came over, 

" Do you know/' he began, " I have found 
one of the finest artists in the show line down 
here that I've seen for a long while." 

" What's his branch ? " I asked. 

** Wild -animal tamer, and he has been play- 
ing to crowded houses here for the past six 
weeks* You ought to see this, especially the 
afternoon performance, at which he gives an 
extraordinary feature." 

He was leading, and we soon came to the 
entrance way of a large tent which occupied 
a portion of the area usually taken up by the 

" Now we get the star performance/' 
whispered Jenkins* 

/f he showman advanced to the front of the 
cage , where he opened a .small wicket window. 

" Now," he began, Lt if some mother in the 
audience will bring me her baby for a few 
moments, I will show you that Leo will hold 
the little one in his great mouth as tenderly 
as its mother can hold it in her arms. Trust 
me j some mother— your little one shall receive 
no harm whatever," 

" We have only to wait a moment," de- 
clared Jenkins, 4L There is a young woman 
in the audience who furnishes the baby every 
afternoon ; and Torrelli, the showman, pays 
her two pounds after every performance-" 

'* Horror ! " I exclaimed. 

And just at this moment the young woman 
arose from somewhere near the front and 
advanced , with the baby in her arms. I got 


showmen. Outside were a number of big 
posters announcing , both by word and illus- 
tration, the wonderful feats performed by the 
man inside, among them being one which was 
especially horrifying — this being announced 
in big letters as the special afternoon feature, 
Jenkins had secured tickets, and was hurrying 
me inside* 

Our seats proved to be in a good position, 
and we had not long to wait for the beginning 
of the show. The performer appeared in the 
caged arena, and the various features of the 
programme were soon passing before us. 
Tigers, leopards^ and lions, one after another, 
had been introduced, and at last King Leo, a 
tremendous lion, stood beside his master in 
the arena* 

one glimpse of them — and the next instant I 
was on my feet. The woman was uur Sally — 
and the baby was our boy 1 

1 summoned strength enough to rush into 
the ring, and the man who was not afraid of 
the whole African jungle cowered before my 
eye. In the meantime I somehow readied 
the side of Sally and seized the boy in 
my arms, allowing her to make a precipitate 

No doubt she is now working her scheme 
in some other city where Torrelii is showing. 
And we— we 11 j we are no longer requiring the 
services of a nurse. Also, we are seriously 
thinking of railing our boy Daniel,. for reasons 
which the reader will have little difficulty 


Red Cross Magazines. 


ISTORY is being made in all 
sorts of ways during the 
wonderful times in which we 
live j and it is not all written 
in the newspapers. One of the 
by-products^ so to speak, of 
the great war which will 
tell much to the future generations as to the 
spirit in which Britons suffered and endured 
its travail is the 
military hospital 
magazine. The 
first of these 
remarkable pe- 
riodicals, which 
are almost 
entirely written 
and illustrated 
by wounded 
soldiers, was 
published at the 
Craigleith Hos- 
pital, Edinburgh, 
1914* During 
the intervening 
period others 
have been 
produced and 
regularly pub- 
lished every 
month at mili- 
tary hospitals 
in London 
(Wan d swart h 
and Denmark 
Hill), Birming- 
ham, Cambridge, 
and- Plymouth- 

The irrepres- 
sible good spirits 
of the men 
maimed and 
broken in the 

war have been a constant source of admiration 
and amazement. It is not surprising, there- 
fore, to find that humour is the predominant 
note of these military hospital magazines, 
M lure is pathos too, here and there, but the 
lugubrious feeling usually associated with a 
hospital of any kind is wholly absent from 
letterpress and illustrations alike. Patients, 
nurses, and doctors see day by day around 

them the con- 


AGAIN.- By Capt. Bruce Bairns! a the r, 





From " Th* fwrt4 p 

tragedy of 




war, but it is 
comedy, not 
tragedy , which 
is reflected in 
these pages of 
merry jest and 
droll story, 
playful cartoon 
and vivacious 

The military 
hospitals, with 
patients and 
staff , number 
their inmates by 
the thousands, 
and form little 
worlds of their 
own, whose daily 
life is mirrored 
for us with vivid 
detail in these 
is faithfully re- 
corded, and we 
get an impression 
of strenuous 
work in teT- 
m spersed with con- 
tactings and 




THE SPRUCERS,-By C. R* W, Nevinsoa. 



From m The Gm<rtl* of thr. 3rd London Gmcral HovpitaL" 

for the patients. We are introduced in turn to all 
the functionaries having a part in the working of the 
hospital— surgeons and matrons, nurses and orderlies f 
porters, gatekeepers, and charwomen — and have 
revealed to us the relations existing between them. 
But it is all done with banter and badinage suggestive 

of a " happy family/' such as is 
rarely to be found in normal life. 
If there is one of these magazines 
which could be described as really 
serious in tone, it is the one repre- 
sentative of Scotland published at 
Craigleith, the solid dignity of its 



'Jkt Fourth." 

format, probably, assisting this 
pression. For irresponsible le> 
on the other hand, the palm m 
perhaps, be given to the G&zett 
the Third London General Hosp 
at Wandsworth, 

It is evident that thes£ magaz 
and the enforced leisure whic 1 
is mainly their purpose to be; 










unsuspected literary and artistic talent. On 
the other hand, three of them have enjoyed 
the assistance of able professional artists 
whose lot happened to be cast for a time in 
the hospitals with which they are associated. 
During the few weeks last summer he was 
a patient at the Fourth London General 
Hospital, Denmark Hil^ the inimitable Captia in 

Sprucers/' a reminiscence of his work with 
the " fatigue party J> in carrying huge bales 
of supplies for the dispensary, is the out- 
come of his experiences in both capacities* 
For the same magazine Private J* 1L Dowd, 
who before the war was favourably known as 
a black-and:white artist/ has been a host in 
himself \ contributing several pencil drawings 

t t CM^Ct <**. CA«W?IS FOR 





From ■* Tft* Gal*41e of thr. 3rd tendon (JrWral Jftm^'klZ." 

] iice Baimsfather produced a page cartoon 

1 r its magazine, The Fourth. Similarly 

( R. W. Ne Vinson, the M Futurist N artist, 

< Attributed several characteristic sketches to 

1 ie Gazette of the Third London General 

] [ospital, Wandsworth, " Private J * Nevin- 

; m was twice an inmate of this institution, 

j st as an " orderly " and then as a 

I *tient — probably a unique occurrence — 

j id his drawing here reproduced, " The 

of rich humour to every number. Gunner 
William Forrest has been of equal service to 
the Craigleitk Hospital Chronicle, for most of 
whose numbers he made drawings until his 
departure from the hospital last December. 
It should be added, however, that quite as 
interesting in their way are the contributions 
of wounded " Tommies/* whose work appears 
which 1 " 




As regards the literary contents ot the "If we 

magazines, two or three quotations must had pet- 

suffice to indicate their quality. Anecdotes mission to 

of hospital life form an attractive feature mention 

in most of them. Here are two samples the name of 

from the Gazette of the Third London General the doctor 

Hospital, Wandsworth : — concerned 

" There was a cheery Canadian in one of in this 

the wards the other day who rather went story, n o 

to prove that humour is very much alive one who 

amongst the wounded. The poor fellow had knows Har- 

bedi caught in the head by shrap.j and he ley Street 

lay in his cot with bandages over his skull would be 
and round his forehead and under his chin, 



i't-Qm " Tht Svutfutrn Otn* 

There came along a well-intentioned lady 
visitor, who plumped herself into a chair by 
the bedside and said, * Were you wounded 
in the head, my brave man ? ' £ Oh, no, 
ma'am/ replied Tommy, with fine sarcasm ; 
* I was wounded in the foot, but the bandage 
has slipped up. J n 


Lady Visitor : " What battle were you in, my 
good man }" 

Captain of thr Com r any XL; "The Final 
for the Battalion Cup, madam !" 

/rout "4IA Southern (Jeitral //^itaf Qattit:," 

Sister : ** Vou need feeding up/' 
PATISNT : ',' I'm fed up already/' 

Prm *'Th* Qvutis Of th* 2rtl I^*J<?n frt+rj; 

surprised at the chuckles of Joy with which it 
was told in the officers 1 mess of 
the Third. 

u A newly-arrived patient, with 
a bullet wound in the arrrij was 
being examined by the said 
doctor, who is one of the muht 
distinguished ornaments of our 
d la suite staff, ! That's all right', 
said the doctor; ' I'll have you 
well again soon. 1 

u ''lhank you/ replied the 
patient, * but I was going to ask 
permission to go out and see a 
specialist about it ! ' ,J 

From the Craigleitk Hospital 
Chronicle we take a clever parody 
of the German M Hymn of Hate/' 
written by a patient of the ht Z 
ward adopting the pseudonym 
of " Pipsqueak " :— 
Tints of milk and soup made hot, 
We love them not, we hate them not* 
Of all the drinks upon the slate 
There's only one we loathe and hate, 
We love a hundred, we hate but one 
With a hate more hot than the hate of the Hun- 
Castor Oil 1 
It is known to you all, it is known to you all. 
It casts a gloom and it casts a pall 
Over every one of the oftkers* mess, 
The one repast they could do with Jess. 
Come, let us go to the trysting-place 
An oath to register, face to face. 
We will never forego our hate 
Of the horror which haunted us early and late* 
Of that loathsome drink with its tragic taste 
By each and all of us frequently faced — 

Castor Oil ! 
Pints of milk and soup made hot, 
We love them not, we hate them not ; 
They're given to us to make us well, 
They do not possess a taste like — France ; 
But this will we hate with a lasting hate 
And never will we that hate abate. 
Hate of all men from " A " Ward to " Z/' 
From shy V.A.D, to OX\ at the head, 
Hate of the night right up to reveille, 
Hate of the head and hate of the belly j. 
We lov*; a h undue xi> we hate but one. 






Illustrated by 

G. Henry Evison. 

S Frank Wilson, golf clubs 
slung over shoulder, ran up 
Tremorro's stairs and banged 
at Tremorro's door, he heard 
a sound of some hurried , 
agitated movement inside the 
room. He grasped the handle 
of the door, but desisted for a second while 
he called out in his breezy fashion : — 

" Come, come ! Get busy. Time for just 
one round before lunch." 

Then he entered. He saw instantly that 
something had happened to Tremorro, who 
was limp as an empty sack in his chair, his 
arms hanging either side of it, his head 
drooping listlessly, 

1( Charles ! " Wilson rapped out in keen 
aJ aT m. Getting no answer, he let Ms irons 
fa clanking to the carpet, and hurried to the 
ir x form of his friend. " Good heavens, 
6 man, what's amiss ? " 

+TemoTTo lifted a heavy head, a lifeless pair 
o eyes* 

* Sit down/' said he, in a dull voice. u I'm 
trouble ; in ghastly trouble. Close the 
jr. Did 1 say trouble?" He uttered a 
rd laugh high up in his throat, as if the 
r d mocked him by its inadequacy. * The 

* is I'm pushed to the final extreme/' 



Wilson came back from shutting the door. 
He planted himself opposite his friend and 
regarded him with frowning, sombre eyes. 
He said, after a pause : — 

11 Anything to do with — with — you know ?" 

** All to do with it," answered the other, in 
a tone of profound wretchedness. u Anything 
else wouldn't be trouble at all. By Heaven, 
there is not any evil in existence which would 
not be easy to endure compared with that 
haunting, that most intolerable shadow ! " 

11 Easy, easy," soothed Wilson. " You are 
not alone, are you ? Haven't you got me? 
Since when did I turn you down ? So that 
ancient matter has found you out ? " 

11 Yes," answered Tremorro, in a hollow 
voice. " I thought there was only one living 
soul in the world who knew that I spent six 
months at Pentonville Prison. I believed that 
only Frank Wilson shared that secret with 
me, I was wrong. Someone else has got 
hold of it," 

" No ! " cried Wilson, in a shocked tone. 

"Yes. Don't ask rrrchow. I can't— won't go 
into detajlfy] l^fftlffpijl p<M (; Hfeffi 1 ] 5 a horrible 
soect in front of me. He nas" ct 



k ^ 



blackmail. I got a letter from him two days 
ago , and I have heard from him since. What 
shall I do, Frank ? It has made me afraid — - 
afraid ! It burns like a coal out of hell ! J * 
And Tremorro jumped to his feet, clenching 
his hands in agony* 

" Do ? " flashed Wilson, snarling the word 
through gritted teeth. ' There's a 'phone in 
the house. Get on it ! Bring in an inspector 
of police now. Get 
it^ over as you would 
the matter of an 
aching tooth. Your 
secret will he re- 
spected. The police 
will promise that. 
T h e y have special 
treatment for the 
special kind of cur 
called a blackmailer. 
You are not in their 
!>ad book now, re- 
member. That 
chapter is closed. 
Bring the police to 
your assistance; 
make a clean breast 
of it to them ; and 
we'll Iiave this dog 
kicked into the 
Gehenna he crawled 
from ! " 

Tremorro leaned 
his forearms upon 
the mantelpiece* l( 1 
cannot do that/ 1 he 
groaned. u This 
fellow might find a 
wav of letting the 
story slip in spite of 
police protection. I 
tell you, Frank, that 
on the day when 
that secret is un- 
earthed, on the day 
when my friends 
know that I served 
a term of imprison- 
ment for obtaining 
money under false 
pretences, on that 

dav 1 will clear right out of life. 1 swear 
that I will I " 

" Stop that rot !" rapped Wilson, sternly. 
11 Do I know this fellow ? " 

t( No. He dropped on me like a bolt from 
the blue. He has got the whole hideous story 

" He signs himself George Tarbart " 
" What does he talk of doing ? " 
"The very worst. He knows how I j 
towards Mary Stilling. He must have 
watching me some time to have discover 
that. He does not move without cunning ; 
says that he thinks Mary ought to know." 
Wilson whistled softly, 
*' Ah," said he, with reflection, " so he 



right enough/* 
" His name ? " 

t tne wnoie maeous 



has not directly asked for a money price fa 
his silence ? " 

l * Not absolutely, but his drift is p 
behind his manner, , Could anything be m >r 
terrible ? Suppose he writes to Mary 
Tremor^jd^Yfj^flJ^is clenched fists a 




desperately, goaded by despair, " I'll strangle 
him before I put an end to my wretched 

"■ Go steady, Charles," urged Wilson, in an 
iron voice. " There might be a bright side. 
Suppose Mary Stilling did know ? " 

Tremorro uttered a deep groan. 

" Do you advise that ? " he demanded, 
huskily. " Is that your counsel ? " 

Wilson refrained from answering; He stood 
regarding his friend in a singularly thoughtful 
fashion. A full two minutes of silence passed ; 
then he said : — 

" What address does this Tarbart put on 
his letter ? I think I should like to have it." 

" What for ? " questioned his friend, his 
burst of frenzy ebbed to a whimper of utter 
misery. " What good can you do ? " 

" Nevertheless, Pd thank you for it," urged 

He went out a minute later, carrying his 
clubs with him. It was a beautiful forenoon 
in early autumn, and the air was bathed 
in serene sunshine. He regarded sadly the 
pale-bhie sky. 

'* No golf this side of lunch," he muttered, 

A brisf walk took him to a quiet restaurant 
oft Langham Place. He turned in here and 
oraeisd dbtnething light. When he had made 
short wotIc of that, he lighted a pipe and 
studied iti his note-book the address which 
his friend had given him. It was not such a 
bad address, and suggested that the man 
Tarbart, though of the slime, did not crawl 
there, but flew, rather, on a decent social 

Wilson shut up his pocket-book and called 
the waiter, whom he knew. 

" George," said he, " take care of my clubs 
until I return in an hour or so." 

Then he climbed into a taxi, and was driven 
to the address which he had noted, in Lupus 
Street, Pimlico. 

On the third floor of one of those heavily*- 
porched, tall grey houses he was fortunate 
enough to find his man. He entered to see 
Tarbart looking at the card he had sent up, 
a d he perceived at once that Tarbart had 
n evil appearance save for a wretched nervous 
* nst in his mouth which continually jerked 
it to the left, and that he wore a morning-coat 
n t without style. 

Tarbart bowed, colouring slightly as his 
v .ritor looked him up and down. He motioned 
tu a chair as he murmured : " To what do I 
e the pleasure " 

Wilson raised a protesting palm. 

" Pleasure be hanged ! Not a bit of it, 

neither for you nor for me," he announced, 
bluntly. " No need to hedge; no call to 
mince matters, Mr. Tarbart. My errand is 
briefly stated. I have a very close friend 
whose name is Charles Tremorro. I believe 
that you know him. To be short, he has 
told me about you. To be candid, he charges 
you with having criminal designs upon him. 
In fact, all that you know of this business 
I know also ; and I am here to see you 
about it." 

Tarbart whitened a little. He tried to 
smile, and his weak mouth wrenched itself 

u And now," said Wilson, seated, slapping 
his broad hands on his thighs, " what the 
devil dp you mean ? " 

Tarbart drew a deep breath. He was not 
going to be bullied. 

" Really, I might retort by asking you what 
you mean," he protested. " I see that this 
is to be a heart-to-heart talk, so we will not 
waste words. Your visit does not catch me 
unprepared. Perhaps I had better tell you 
that I heard every word of the talk between 
you and Tremorro this morning. I had called 
upon him at his request, and we were discuss- 
ing the matter when you burst in on us. He 
pushed me into an adjoining room because 
he was upset at the time, and acted under 

" Upset ? I should say he was upset ! " 
menaced Wilson. " And so you played the 
eavesdropper — the sneak ? " 

" I could not help hearing," demurred 
Tarbart, softly. " But since it means that 
there is nothing hidden between us it might 
save you, and me, any distressing prelimin- 

Wilson stared hard. " You take this affair 
coolly," he replied, with grimness. " But I 
have come to see it finished. Your kindly 
conviction that a Miss Stilling ought to know 
a certain fact in my friend's history is dust 
in no one's eyes. I take it that for a sum of 
money you would lose this considerate con- 
viction. Yes or no ? Answer ! " 

" You speak brutally," murmured Tarbart, 
with his wretched grin. 

" I thought so ! We understand one 
another. Good ! Now for action." Wilson 
leaned forward, clasping his knees, his keen 
eyes, which could follow a golf ball high into 
the blue, flickering with intense resolve. " My 
friend is afraid of you, Tarbart. »I am not. 
It is in his power, if he had the spirit, to send 
you to jail ; but he hasn't. I have ! He 
regards concealment of his unhaopy story as 
above all things imperative. I don't. In 



these circumstances, I have made up my 
mind to act for him without asking his per- 
mission. You imagine that you can bleed 
him white? Wrong; and for the simple 
reason that he is poor. Has ail that soaked 
into your intelligence ? Now I will tell you 
what I mean to do. I will give you just five 
hundred pounds to keep your mouth shut, to 
keep your uneasiness regarding Miss Stilling 
in a perpetual abeyance. I will do this for 
Tremorro's : sake, and his alone. That he is 
more to me than most men you are aware — 
after your eavesdropping scene this morning ; 
and in the name of our friendship I will go 
thus far and no farther. Your answer ? " 

Tarbart crushed a too-ready reply, though 
his eyes gleamed. 

" Unconditionally ? " he ventured, after a 

" If the sad episode in my friend's life leaks 
out I shall put it down to your blabbing." 

" I shall forget it, Mr. Wilson." 

" Ah, you take the mask off, do you ? " 
snarled the other. " Mind, if this tiling be- 
comes known I shall deal with you properly, 
for you have confessed to blackmailing. You 
shall have the money, but I'll be hanged if it 
shall reach you through a straight channel." 

Tarbart sat up at -that. " I don't follow," 
he answered, suspiciously. 

" Oh, it is easily explained. I want your 
head in a noos^, and I shall pull on the rope 
if you attempt any tricks later on. I have 
got to safeguard myself. Do you imagine 
that I am such a fool as to trust your mere 
word to keep quiet ? Scarcely ! You shall 
have five hundred from me, and you shall 
have it inside of an hour. I shall write you 
a cheque for the money — yes ; but I make 
one vital stipulation: I will draw out the 
cheque, but you shall put my signature to it ! " 

Tarbart rose slowly. " I don't get you," 
he growled, darkly. 

" You shall forge my name to the cheque," 
went on ^Wilson, with emphatic decision. 
" The money will be your own to do with as 
you choose, but your head will be in the loop 
of a rope, and if you break faith in the matter 
of Tremorro's secret I shall draw the noose. 
In plain terms, I am going to make you 
commit forgery in order that I may have a 
hold upon you. I shall tell my bankers that 
my signature was imitated, but I shall request 
them not to move in the matter without my 
instructions. They will remember you, the 
recipient of the money, however ; five hundred 
pounds is not paid over a bank's counter any 
day in the week. Keep faith, and you 'shall 
be safe enough. I have too dear a regard for 

Tremorro to act agaihst you, and you must 
see that. Now what do you say ? " 

" Say ? I don't like it. Indeed, I don't ! " 

" And did I think you would ? Well, refuse, 
and I go straight from here to the police. I 
want you to realize that in the most emphatic 
manner. Tremorro will not thank me for so 
doing, but I am perfectly assured that it would 
be the best thing for him, and I'd risk the 
severing of our friendship., I mean it, and 
you can come and see me do it if you like. 
Here it all is, then : keep silent for the sum 
of five hundred pounds, or go to prison for 
blackmailing. Now choose." 

Tarbart walked about the room, very much 
perturbed, darting uneasy and resentful 
glances at his visitor. 

u See here," he blurted, suddenly. " Suppose 
there are not five hundred pounds to your 
running account at the bank ? " 

" Suppose nothing. Do you imagine I am 
making this offer just to put you in a foolish 
position ? What good would that do ? " 

" That may be all right," muttered Tarbart. 
" All the same, I'd be satisfied with half of 
five hundred rather than go through this 
hole-and-corner business." 

" Half be it ; but you sign my name," 
insisted Wilson, imperturbably. 

Tarbart continued his restless pacing. Re 
blurted out again: — • [ \ 

" The story in Tremorro's past ixugUt leak 
out at some future time without my having 
anything to do with it. How should I stand 
in that case ? " 

" It will not. That you got hold of it was 
a miracle ; but it is most unlikely that any- 
one else will. Besides, if one did, I should be 
able to trace the telling to its source, I guess." 

" All right," snapped Tarbart, savagely. 
" Draw out the cheque. I'm agreeable." 

" And wise," added Wilson, with a grim 
smile. He unbuttoned his golfing jacket and 
tugged out a letter-wallet, from which he 
extracted one of the two or three loose blank 
cheque forms which he always kept about 
him for emergency. He placed one upon the 
table in the middle of the room. From the 
same russia-leather receptacle, £r6nr o% of 
the smaller pockets of it, he produced a slip 
of paper bearing his signature, obviously 1 ept 
there for identification purposes. He dr w a 
chair under him. 

" I shall make the cheque payable to fou 
— George Tarbart," he announced. " I s iall 
not cross it, so you need merely endon ? it 
before presenting. I shall fill in the bod f of 
the cheque ; it is your forging of my sign** urc 
which alone matters." 



Soon done. Wilson vacated his seat and 
handed the pen to Tarbart. 

" First," said he, grimly, " you have got 
to get the knack of my signature. Best try 
it a score or so of times on a blank piece of 
paper. There it is — c F. H. Wilson.' Simple 
enough, and no flourishes ; but you will want 
a little practice." 

I arbart commenced, putting down the name 
on a loose sheet time after time. 

" You show a suspicious skill at that sort 
of game," growled Wilson, looking over the 
other's shoulder. " I shouldn't be surprised if 
it is in your line." 

" What do you mean by that ? " snarled 
Tarbart, savagely. 

Wilson laughed. He took up the slip of 
paper and examined it critically. 

" The last two specimens are well-nigh 
perfect," he commented. " Now try it on 
the cheque." 

Here, however, Tarbart was a trifle nervous, 
with the result that he spoilt two of the pink 

"■Only one left, and if you muddle that you 
will have to wait until to-morrow," Wilson 
warned. " I may change my mind before 
then. Go easy. Mine is a plain signature — 
too plain, I am often told." 

Tarbart's last attempt was highly satis- 
factory. Wilson pored over it a long time. 

*' It will pass," said he, curtly. " Endorse 
it and be off with you. There's the address, 
over the date. Fifteen minutes' walk. Be 
smart, or you will have the bank shut." 

Tarbart still demurred, although he took 
up his hat. 

II They will probably give me notes mostly," 
he said, thinking hard. " Notes are traced 
so easily. How can I tell that, once I have 
gone through this thing, you will* not turn on 
me, have the notes stopped, and me arrested ? " 

" Then get gold," snapped Wilson, shortly. 

41 Five hundred pounds in gold, paid over 
the bank counter ? " answered the other, un- 
certainly. " I don't believe they'd do it." 

14 Then ask for less — half of it, if you like. 
Take all they can give you and the rest in 
n< v You will have to. And hurry ! " 
11 Tarbart hesitated. 

ee here," he complained ; " notes or gold, 
01 jth, it is more than likely that the bank 

* query this cheque before cashing it. They 
n suspect the signature right away, in 
w ch case I shall be detained. But even if 
tl r have no doubts it is probable enough 
tl ; they will want to get into communication 

* you before paying me." 

1, confound your qualms ! " exclaimed 

Wilson, angrily. " I thought of that before 
you did. I am hoping that they will not 
bother. On the other hand, I allow that 
they very likely will. But that will be only 
to your advantage, since I should be bound 
to tell them it is O.K., in which case I fear I 
should lose any future hold upon you, and 
must be content to accept your mere word 
to keep your blackmailing mouth shut for 
five hundred pounds. Still, it is nearly closing 
time, and they may pass the cheque through 
straight away. If they detain you, however, 
tell them to telephone to me at this address, 
I take it there is a 'phone in the house ? " 

" Yes, downstairs." 

44 Then get along. I'm making it a darned 
sight too easy for you, you biHite." 

Tarbart edged towards the door. 

" All right," said he, imperfectly satisfied. 
44 But if you give me away I swear that 
Tremorro shall suffer for it." 

Wilson stood at the window and saw Tar- 
bart leave the house and walk quickly down 
the long street. 

Half an hour passed. 

Tarbart re-entered the house. Wilson 
heard him coming up the stairs. He tossed 
aside the cigarette he was enjoying, and 
looked keenly at the door. Tarbart appeared, 

44 Well ? " demanded his visitor, curtly. 
" You pulled it off ? " 

Tarbart, rather white, nodded. 

" No questions asked ? " 

" Not one." 

44 Notes or gold ? " 

" Gold." 

" You're a lucky swine." 

Tarbart put his hat down on a chair, and 
he was in the act of tugging from his pockets 
some stiff paper bags containing the money 
when he was astonished to see Tremorro step 
from behind the door. He uttered a short, 
sharp cry, leaped back, and was instantly 
gripped, pinioned in the powerful arms of 
Wilson. Before he could put forth a single 
effort a soft substance was over his nose and 
mouth, and consciousness went out in a wild 
medley of darkening shapes. 

It returned to him about an hour later-^ 
rather more. His sick brain groped after 
remembrance. He greeted it with a terrible 
oath* He plunged his hands into his pockets 
and found them empty. He staggered to his 
feet with a fierce impulse to do something. 
Upon the table was a brass candlestick in a 
brass tray, and in this tray was a sheet of 
blackened paper which crumbled to ashes as 
he touched it. Now. what had been written 
on this paper was as follows :— 



** You had a good card, but you played it 
badly, my son, Tremorro is indeed my pal, 
and undeniably he was six months on the 
wrong side of Pentoaville. But you went 
wide in assuming that he was a nice, reformed 
character. Alas, he is not that vet ! Nor 
am I. That scene in his room this morning 
was arranged solely for your special benefit, 


for I knew perfectly well that you were 
listening. Now for the sequel. 

" My name is plain Frank Wilson, I am 
not a customer of the bank ; never was. 
R H. Wilson is founder and worst player of 
our golf club. He is a customer of the bank. 
His floating account there at the moment is 
large, foolishly large, owing to a big remittance 
he has just put through. Our business is to 

find out these pleasant details, 1 cut his 
easy signature from a letter. 1 found his 
cheque-book in a pocket of his coat hanging 
in the club dressing-room. I removed three 
blank forms from three different places. You 
forged his name beautifully to one of them. 
Vou suspected that the hank would make 
inquiry before paying, 1 didn't suspect; I 
was certain that they 

u The moment after 
you left here 1 slipped 
round to a call office 
installed in a barber's 
shop. I rang up Harris. 
Who is Harris ? He is 
manager of the hank. 
Also, he is one of the 
most enthusiastic and 
one of the most erratic 
players at our club. 
Introduced by F. H, V. 
Our dialogue was not 
without interest. Here 
is my brief share of 

" ' That you, Harris, 
my son ? It is F. H, W, 
speaking— your 
estimable and worthy 
founder. What ? Can't 
hear you very well. 
Line a bit out of order, 
Pardon it and my 
hearse voice. Caught a 
rotten cold going round 
last week in wet boots* 
I want you to come 
round this evening* I've 
a new iron that could 
beat the devil. I say 
I want you to turn up 
this evening. This line 
is awful, I can scarcely 
hear you; hardly 
recognize your voice. 
How does mine sound ? 
Rough ? Wellj old man, 
I shall look for you 
about six. Tl ie greens 
are in the pink, and I want a revenge for that 
licking you treated me to on Tuesday after- 
noon. Forgotten it ? 1 should say I haven 1 !, 
nor forgiven you, either. It was that lucky 
kick as you approached the fifteenth green 
w : hich turned your luck. Well, see you— oh, 
wait a moment, Harris. A friend is coming 
},Vl4F .TOY.-Witha cheque of mine for rather a 
W^feiEjgyjTtt Ui-^lMHsd. Ves, an open 



cheque, payable to George Tarbart. I rang 
you up to say it's all O.K. He wants it all 
in gold. Yes, the whole lot. He is going 
abroad immediately, and has great faith in 
the English sovereign. He won't listen to 
good counsel, and wants the hard cash. 
What's that ? War rumours making gold 
scarce ? Wait until war comes, you pessimist. 
Of course, if you really cannot let him have 
it, then give him as much as you can. But 
I'd take it as a favour if you could meet his 
wishes. A smallish man, with a nervous 
twist at his mouth. Do what you can, old 
man. And turn up this evening as early as 
poss. I'm in good form, and will make you 
look pretty sick. Good-bye/ 

11 That was the gist of my conversation. I 
put that one over on Harris on the plea of a 
bad cold and a crackling wire affecting my 
voice, and because I knew all details of his 
play with F. H. W. No one noticed me go 
in or out of the 'phone box, although I had 
arranged a slight facial disguise before enter- 
ing. When 1 got back here Tremorro had 
arrived, sharp to pre-arranged time. That 
is all, Tarbart. But, in recognition of the 

risk ycu ran, you will find fifty pounds behind 
the clock on your mantelpiece. We give that 
to you with a word of sound advice : Rim, 
and run hard before the bank gets a start on 
the man who forged a cheque to the tune of 
five hundred of the best." 

Wilson had swiftly composed this explana- 
tory epistle. Tremorro admired it, then held 
it to the flame of a candle. He said : — 

"This is a very fine literary effort. But 
we won't leave this or any scrap of evidence 
against us. Let the skunk do some guessing. 
He is far too foxy to get himself pinched. 
There is only one thing that bothers me. 
The bank will know that it was almost 
certainly some member of the club who 
diddled them out of five hundred." 

" I should not worry about that ! " laughed 
Wilson, grimly. " There are seven hundred 
members of our club ; just four hundred too 
many, curse 'em." 

" That," said Tremorro, reflectively, " is 
very true." 

And he finished this admission at the 
precise moment that he took away the fifty 
pounds from behind the clock. 


The Last oi the Fifth Series. 


Who needs a pen knows well who will provide. 
And, knowing it, soon finds his need supplied, 

L. The cry at first was false ; the quadruped 
Will tell oi moving water, backwards read. 

2. Tib found within the mouth of bird, and near 
The fox and goose in partnership appear. 

3. Born in the month of June, in June she died. 
Here half the bird will have to stand aside. 

4. Ten m'les from — where ? See famous history, 
Insisting not on strict orthography. 

6. " Indeed " — you know these quatrains ? — " oft before 
I swore — but did I mean it when I swore ? " 

With this see saw. it thus we may translate ; 
The same will happen to a Western State. 

Noughts of tobacco well may make you start ; 
offoe suggests the whole, opposed to part. 

le is the fifth when this will later be ; 

Le follows nc*t when this is last but three. 


by Google 

The foregoing acrostic and the previous ones of this 
series refer to advertisements appearing in this or recent 
issues of The Strand Magazine. 

Answers to Acrostic No: 30 should be addressed to the 
Acrostic Editor, The Strand Magazine, Southampton 
Street, Strand, London, W.C.2, and must arrive not later than 
by the first -post on July 7th. 

Two anstvers may be sent to evens light. 

With their answers to this acrostic solvers must send also 
their names and addresses. 

Answer to No. 29. 

1. R anso M 

2. U mm U 

3. D ea L 

4. G na T 

5. E 1 I 
Notes.— Light 1 . Romans. 

2. Summnm bonum. 

Answer to No. 26. 

1. R 

2. U 

3. D ue 

4. G a n n 1 1 e 

5. E fiend 

e q ui e 



Note.— Proem. 


" Piou-piou " is accepted for the second light of No. ?6. 

Original from 








r u yz^z^~^T ' llfLiUL!!' ' 

Original fr 







,J ll II fir 




HAT will be best, sir, Go 
and have a good rest by 
the sea" 
" Ali f but- — -" 

if Yes, sir, I beg of you, Then you 
will be in fine fettle to-night, The 
Home Secretary will expect to find you 
at the very top of your form." 

" All right, Harber— if you really 
think so. But it seems a shame to 
leave you to do all the work this 
morning and this afternoon." 

The Hon. George Calmer, third son of Baron 
Courthope, late Lord Chief justice of England* 
nodded to his agent, turned away from the stone 
portico beneath which he had been standing, 
and entered the door of the hotel. He climbed 
wearily to his bedroom , picked up the paint-box 
and camp-stool which he carried with him every- 
where — even when electioneering — and sauntered 
down the stairs. The proprietor — -a horsey little 
Londoner who had come to Cornwall recently, 
and was one of the whips of the Porth Tudy 
beagles — was standing in the halL At the sight ot 
the candidate t his hand went, saluting, to his 

" Mr, Harber tells me you are going to have 
the day off, sir* It is very wise, if 1 may say so. 
A lunch is being put up for you, and I have told 
them to bring round the car." 

Ji Thank yon, Mr, Nash, but I don't think I 
want it, I don't mean the Junch p but the car. 
Haven't you got a bicycle you could provide me 
with instead ? " 

r " Yes, sir, I have a, bicycle. I'll lend it you 

Illustrated by G- H 



with pleasure. But surely you would prefer the 
car ! " 

The Hon, George Calder frowned. He had 
spent three excessively exhausting weeks in 
canvassing a rural constituency, and to ride in 
a car was the last thing that appealed to him as 
recreation. He was stale with work and worn out 
with speech -making, sick of everything and 
everybody, and immensely eager to be alone. 
What solitude would he find, and what freedom, 
with a chauffeur waiting around ? 

11 No/' he said, inflexibly, and with something 
of the peevishness which comes from nerve- 
strain, " I prefer the bicycle. 1 need exercise 
very badly indeed." 

The candidates manner was not lost on the 
landlord. The bicycle w:as brought, the camp-stool 
and luncheon-basket strapped upon the carrier 
behind. The Hon + George slung his paint-box, 
mounted, nodded, and departed, going for a while 
past the cheerless, stone-faced buildings of the 
little West: Cornwul! town. 

i^fl? r ^5.}ri r 6 , f :t firi i IT:MR wminutes - Hedgea 



replaced houses ; low walls encompassed roadside 
meadows bright with buttercups and; clover ; 
the moor began to disclose itself presently, yellow 
and sweetly scented, and a soft cool breeze blew 
over it, telling ot the not far distant sea. He 
quickened pace unconsciously, feeling better 
already, restored to energy by solitude and 
exercise after three weeks' electoral campaign. 
IJe began to whistle, then to hum, and ultimately 
to- sing aloud. 

He continued to follow, the main road for a mile 
or two, then turned to the right sharply, passed 
through a little village, and free-wheeled down 
a- gorge of great steepness to the sea. He dis- 
mounted and put his bicycle into shelter, un- 
strapped his luncheon-basket and camp-stool, 
stood considering the swirl of waters in the 
miniature harbour in which some black-painted 
fishing-boats rocked at anchor, ascended a winding 
pathway, and came to . the top of the cliffs. 
Across them, a mile or more distant, was a very 
remarkable scene. 

A field of low sharp rocks, fully half a mile wide, 
projected six hundred yards into the Atlantic, 
and was bisected by a slender path of concrete. 
Towards the far end the path sloped steeply 
upward ; the outer curve of a stone stairway was 
visible ; and at^the top of the steps a tall white 
tower was built upon the apex of a crag. It was 
the famous St. Eval lighthouse, dramatic in its 
aspect, romantic in its situation, historical and 
terrible in its associations, since where it stood 
a .Norman baron had had his castle ; and malignant 
cressets had betrayed brave mariners sailing the 
Cornish seas. - 

George Calder approached and stood regarding 
the luminous walls of the solitary, sun-bathed 
building with a veritable artist's eye. He was 
something of a throwback. By profession he 
was a barrister, but he had inherited no liking 
for the law. There had been stray poets and occa- 
sional painters in his family for several hundred 

He hesitated whether to cross the pathway or 
to remain upon the cliff-top. He decided upon 
the latter, deposited his luncheon-basket in 
a sheltered cranny, and began to express the 
emotion which the scene gave him in excellent 
water-colour paint. In five seconds he was deaf, 
blind, and dumb to everything save the drama 
of the tower upon thex:rag. 

Yet his surroundings were very beautiful. In 
a little bay to the left, just beside and below him, 
tile almost oily water lay in strange still shapings. 
About and behind him the June sun glinted on 
t' gay and yellow gorselands; the west wind 
c !ed the atmosphere with a soft succession 
< "ighs. The black basalt of the rocks was hot 
i radiant. The three successive headlands in 
1 middle distance shimmered purple in the 

1 5. 

eorge Calder painted vigorously, if not over- 
•iully ; he had a natural artistic feeling, a fine 
ie of colour, but hardly a ha'p'orth of tech- 
•ie. He was clearly very happy, for his hand- 
le, freckled, fair-haired face, with its well- 
ned and regular features, had lost — at any 
temporarily — its slight expression of sadness 

which bordered upon discontent. He loved art. 
It was his , appointed calling ; but he lacked 
courage to give it his all. Politics — this,* at thirty, 
was his first candidature — had been forced upon 
him by his family, sorely against his will. 

An hour passed, and the sketch was finished. 
He rose and contemplated his work carefully from 
a yard or two away. Something was amiss. He 
could not tell in what fashion, but amiss it 
assuredly was. If only he had someone to give 
him a little expert advice ! 

Work had made him hungry. Instinctively he 
looked round towards the cranny where he had 
hidden his lunch. He started. He was no longer 
alone on the cliff-top. Someone was sketching 
the. lighthouse from a point a hundred yards off. 

George Calder loved women. He was an 
athlete, but a Romantic like his poet forbears, and 
had a sense of abstract beauty unusual in men 
of his antecedents and class. He had also the 
spirit of adventure which had led him, in many 
countries, to talk to all sorts and conditions 
of folk. 

And this woman — his eyes were good, and a 
hundred yards is not a great distance — looked 
comely and reasonably young. He did not 
hesitate. He walked towards her with resolute 
steps. As he drew nearer he congratulated him- 
self upon his discernment. She was young, and 
probably pretty, by her figure and th& poise 
of her head. 

She was working diligently — so diligently that 
he was within three or four yards of her before 
she heard his footsteps on the soft and soundless 
grass. She turned round quickly, faced him, and 
gave a great start. Possibly she was nervous. 
Yet she looked healthy enough. 

She looked also exceedingly pretty. Her 
prettiness was as dark and irregular as the hand- 
someness of George Calder was fair and classical. 
She had brown eyes, a nose slightly retroussd, 
white teeth, and raven hair. The set of her head 
delighted him. George Calder hated foolish 
women, and she looked as if she had brains. 

A glance at her picture assured him that she 
was not an amateur of painting. It had a design 
and a finish which his own completely lacked. 
He advanced a yard or so farther, and then 
raised his hat. 

" Good morning," he said. " I see you are 
sketching the lighthouse, and that you are any- 
thing but an amateur. I am only a novice. I have 
always heard that true artists are generous. 
I wonder if you would be so very kind as to tell 
me what is wrong with my work ? " 

She considered him very curiously — indeed, 
with a certain hostility. Then, as it seemed 
despite herself, she smiled. 

" I shall be very happy if I can be of any 
assistance. Where are you working ? Oh, yes, 
over there ! " 

She rose, as though to accompany him. Pro- 
testingly he waved her back. 

" No, no," he said. " I'll go and bring it you. 
Please stay where you are." 

" But that '3 fin possible. How can I criticize 
it properly from here 5* I can only help you if 
I see it from the point at which it was done \ " 


" Of course ! How foolish of me. I'm very 
ignorant. I beg your pardon. I didn't realize 
when I asked you to help me that you would have 
to trudge a hundred yards in this sun." 

She laughed now, rose, and began to walk 
towards his picture, he, beside her, in a little 
measure already a captive to her beauty, vitality, 
and allure. She was possibly six-and-twenty. 
She was certainly intelligent. Talking to her was 
better than electioneering, immeasurably better. 
George Calder began to visualize a pleasant 

They reached his picture. She regarded it 
critically, retiring and advancing, then retiring 
and advancing again. 

" You've a nice dramatic sense," she said, 
ultimately. " The composition is pleasing, but 
the colour tones are not good. Give me your 
paint-box a moment. May I see what I can do ? " 

She tooic box and brushes, touched up the 
picture deftly, and then stepped away. 

" There I " she said. " It isn't a masterpiece, 
but it is — frankly — better than it was." 

" Yes, I see it now. Thank you — ever so much." 

George Calder had a nice voice, which sounded 
even nicer when he expressed gratitude. She 
smiled, as if pleased with his thanks. Having 
adventured thus far — with profit — he adventured 
farther still. 

" I^on't know how to repay you," he began. 
" But may I make an attempt ? I have a tolerably 
good lunch in a basket by the rock, there. There 
is far more of it than is good for me, too. Will you 
help me to partake ? " 

She hesitated, even frowned a little. Her face 
cleared, however. A curious, enigmatic expression, 
suggesting the half conception of a project, flitted 
over her face. 

" Thank you," she answered. "It will give me 
much pleasure, provided there is plenty to 

He bowed his acknowledgments, approached 
his cache, retrieved the luncheon-basket, and 
returned. He put a question. She nodded agree- 
ment. They descended a cliff path and sought 
shelter at the foot of a tiny cove. The sunlit 
water splashed musical and close to them as they 
settled themselves in the shade. 

The lunch consisted of caviare sandwiches— to 
which, as the landlord knew, George Calder was 
particularly partial — some cucumber sandwiches, 
some beef sandwiches, some cake, and a bottle 
of Graves. They partook with enjoyment and 
appetite. She talked to him of Paris and the 
Quartier, He listened, and interjected delightedly. 
She was a charming girl, yet completely a woman, 
and though only a painter in posse, he had all 
the native joy of the true artist in beauty and 

" How mundane we are ! " she said, presently. 
" Fancy eating caviare in Cornwall. We ought 
to be devouring saffron-cakes and cream." 

He shuddered. 

" If you'd eaten all the cream that I've eaten 
this last month or so, you'd be glad of urban food. 
I've been — I've got some work to do — -no, I don't 
travel in sewing-machines — which takes me into 
cottages a good deal. They offer me refreshment 

which I can't very well refuse. I'm cream-dfasl 
for life now. And I go positively yellow at the 
sight of a saffron-cake." 

" Yes, I know the feeling. One of my brothers 
and I were once staying in a farmhouse where we 
had nothing to eat but ham and eggs and saffron- 
cakes and cream for three months. One day we 
could bear it no longer, so we cycled into Wade- 
bridge and bought anchovies and olives and 
white wine and carried them back home. We 
didn't like to hurt the susceptibilities of the 
farmer's wife by eating them -at table and leaving 
the supper, so we put the ham and eggs into 
a newspaper and took the anchovies and the other 
things into the fields. They were very good. 
Indeed, they were so good that we went back to 
town next day." 

" I think that was rather nice of you." 

"To go back to town ? " 

" No, not to hurt the susceptibilities of the 
farmer's wife. I hate upsetting people's feelings. 
Don't you ? " . 

She winced and reddened, shot a curious glance 
at him, and made no answer. He offered her 
a cigarette. She declined. He smoked in silence. - 
They sat looking at the sea. 

Suddenly he pointed to the wonderful white 

" What a gorgeous life it must be," he said. 

" You mean a lighthouse-keeper's ? " 

" Yes, so restful and peaceful. No worries. 
Just lighting up at night-time and keeping things 

She nodded. Her face contorted. She seemed 
to be struggling to come to some secret decision. 
Then she resumed in an easy tone. 

" I imagine that, like all forms of existence, 
it has its drawbacks. Suppose we go a little way 
nearer the tower ? I should love to climb those 
steps and look down on the water from the rock." 

" It would be rather jolly. Yes, let's. Shall we 
take our sketching things or not ? " 

" Why, yes. We can work, one against the 
other. It will be stimulus for us both." 

" All right. No, Fll fetch your belongings. 
You can pack up mine while I'm gone." 

He strode off up the cliff-side to where he had 
been working. She began to put his things 
together, as he had asked. But she stopped almost 
immediately, and till he disappeared from sight 
sat looking after him, watching his alert and 
well-built form. Her face displayed a strange 
perplexity ; indeed, she appeared to be under- 
going a certain definite stress. It was only when 
he reappeared in sight again that she set seriously 
about her task. 

He rejoined her and took her stool and her paint- 
box. They climbed the cliff together, walked 
along it till they reached the white stone bungalow 
where the keepers were quartered, descended 
a declivity beside it, and crossed the concrete 
path. It declined gently for some distance, and 
ran for three hundred yards at a dead level 
between the bare wide field of rocks. Then it 
sloped upwards, first slightly, then more steeply. 
It ended in a little platform beneath a flight of 
step? which themselves ended 3t another"plat£orm 
which encircled the loot of the tower. 



Calder and his companion stood at the foot 
of the steps, looking down into the pellucid 
deepness of the cool green water below. Straight 
ahead of them a cargo steamer bumped her way 
to Bristol in ballast, and another, full laden, 
fought her way heavily to Land's End. To the 
left the sun made glorious the gorse-clad slopes 
of the three great headlands which ran far out 
into the sea. 

" Aren't they beautiful ? " she said, pointing 
to them. " I suppose we've a right here ! Let us 
sit down and paint/' 

He nodded eager agreement. They unfolded 
their camp-stools and began to work. Up above, 
in the railing-ringed platform which surrounded 
the pedestal of the lighthouse, a keeper stood 
looking down. He glanced at the land at intervals. 
The tide was possibly incoming, but the rock 
field was almost bare. 

The pair painted indefatigably. Now and then 

George Calder's companion glanced over her 

shoulder. She seemed to regard the bare rock 

I field and the concrete path across it with a certain 

interest, much as the keeper above. She even 

; drew Calder's attention to it once. After that her 

glances were unseen by him. This was only 

natural. The fever of work had got hold of him. 

He was happy in the stimulus ot the companion- 

, ship, and he painted like a possessed. 

[ An hour passed. The sketches, as sketches, 

were finished. Calder looked admiringly at hers. 

" I wish I had your technique," he said. 

" Where did you learn ? " 

" I told you — in Paris, and St. Ives, where I've 
got a studio on the harbour. The place is a little 
Paradise. Of course, you know it well I " 

" No, I don't ; I never set foot in Cornwall till 
this wretched election came along." 

She started as he uttered the word " election," 
but her voice was indifferent, almost over-calm. 

" The election ! Isn't there one at Porth Tudy ? 
Are you taking part in that ? " 
" Rather ! I'm Hamlet." 
" Hamlet ! " 

" Yes — -the election, you know. At least, I and 
another fellow — the other candidate — Bruce, his 
name is. He takes things rather seriously, but 
he's a brother barrister, and quite a decent chap. 
I have to blackguard his side awfully, and he 
blackguards mine." 

" It must be rather fun, taking part in an 
election. Which of you is going to win ? " 

" I don't know. They say I am. My agent's 
rather a smart chap." 

" Then what are you doing here ? Why aren't 
yru at work ? " 

' I've got a great meeting to attend to-night 
at Delaford — the quarry place, you know — and it 
ca i easily turn the scale. The Home Secretary 
is ximing to talk to 'em, and I've got to speak, 
tc I was fagged out a bit. My agent advised 
ra to have an afternoon's rest. It suited my book 

She was silent. They stood for a minute looking 
01 1 to sea. It was more than ever beautiful. The 
w id had dropped ; the water was green in places, 
pi rple in others, ending in a marvellous blue. 
T *re was no visible movement, but there came 

at intervals the boom against the rock wall 
beneath them of a big, slow, heavy wave. 

Suddenly Calder put his right hand into 1 a 
waistcoat-pocket, pulled out and glanced at his 

" Well, if s been perfectly gorgeous," he said, 
and turned round in the speaking. *' I've never 
enjoyed an afternoon so much. But I must be 
getting back now, and — my God f — I beg your 
pardon — -but look at the sea ! " 

" The sea ! Where ? Oh, what does it mean ? " 

There was no need to ask the question. The 
concrete path from the shore was visible no 
longer ; it was completely and utterly submerged. 
The rock field was invisible likewise, t The tide 
had come up while they had been painting. The 
lighthouse was cut off from the land. 

They looked at each other. Dismay, tempered 
with amusement, was written on Calder's face. 
On her face was written — well, it was difficult to 

" We're marooned ! " he said. " Something must 
be done immediately 1 Let's see the keeper at 
once ! " 

He hurried up the steps, reached the pedestal 
platform, and banged on the gun-metal door. 
A keeper appeared leisuredly. He held up a pro- 
testing hand. 

" No admittance, sir, unless you've got a permit. 
I'm sorry — very ; but it's against Trinity" House 

" Quite so, quite so. Very proper to be so strict 
to duty, but I'm not trying to come in. On the 
contrary, I'm most anxious to get out. But the 
tide's up. Have you got a boat ? " 

The man's eyes twinkled. He looked exceed- 
ingly amused. " I'm afraid I'll have to break 
rules," he said. " Yes, I shall have to let you in." 

" Why ? " 

" Because there is no boat and no landing- 
place. There are currents all around these rocks. 
And I can't very well let you and the lady stay 
outside on the parapet till morning." 

" Till morning ? " 

" Yes, sir ; it's half -past five now. It will be 
close upon midnight before you can get a Way." 

George Calder stood motionless. Before him 
passed, with horrible distinctness, the scene at 
the Delaford Hall. The candidate would be 
missing. The Home Secretary would be furious. 
The electors — -those quarrymen who could turn 
the fortunes of the morrow — would be loudly 
and vociferously enraged. He glanced round 
helplessly at the girl, who had followed him up 
the steps. 

" What are we to do ? " she asked, breathlessly. 
" Are we — is it true that we are marooned ? " 

" Perfectly true. There is no escape before 
twelve o'clock to-night ! " 

There was a silence. Calder and the girl were 
looking at the treacherous sea. The keeper stood 
smiling at them benignantly, and with an air 
of having encountered, and possibly contrived, to 
his own financial advantage, similar situations 

" The tide comes up like a mill-race, sir," he 
said, presently. " You're not the only lady and 
gentleman as has been caught. Better come in 





an' have a cup o' tea. An' then go on painting — if 
you like." 

" Sound advice ! " Calder nodded, and set him- 
self to show outward annoyance no further. 
" We must make the best of it, keeper ; that's 

He stood aside to let his companion pass through 
the doorway. He himself followed. Their guide 
led them through a room — whose round walls 
were hung with lifebelts and buoys, coils of rope, 
fishing-rods, and a home-made lobster-pot — -up 
sixteen iron steps, which led into a room which 
contained immense oil cisterns, up more stairs, 
which led into a similar room, thence into the winch 
and crane and store rooms, and finally into the 
living-room, clean and cosy, with cooking-range, 
shelves, dresser, pdtns, pots, ind a bookcase 
filled with volumes supplied by Trinity House. 
A vast kettle was boiling ; there was a round table 
in the centre through which passed a pillar to the 
ceiling and the floor. The keeper motioned them 
to be seated, and set before them bread and 
butter and cake. 

They began to eat. The keeper glanced at them, 
excused himself, and climbed to the upper floor 
to see to the light. The meal continued. Calder 
sat looking at the girl. He found her charming. 
But her vitality seemed to have deserted her ; 
she seemed to avoid looking at .him and to be 
nervous, distracted, and distraite; 

" Aren't you hungry ? " he said, presently. 
" You don't seem to be eating anything." 

" Oh, I'm all right, thanks.: I haven't much 
appetite. I had such an enormous lunch." 

Her voice trembled as she answered. Calder did 
not reply. He sat watching her more closely, 
and bent his brows to a frown. Evidently silence 
irked her* For suddenly she burst out :— 

"You are strange! You're calm, extra- 
ordinarily 1 What about your election ? You 
don't seehr a bit upset." 

M Don'tfl ?i 1 don't wear my heart on my sleeve, 
in any .case. I'm a bit of a philosopher, too ; it's 
no use cryitrg over spilt milk. By the way, your 
pedple-Mhey will be anxious, will they not ? " 

M Oh, no ; I'm very independent. I'm always 
doing impulsive things. -* 

Calder 's brows' relaxed now. A smile took the 
place of the frown. 

*' " By the way," he said, " we were foolish to 
let that tide catch us, weren't we ? It's like the 
Carbtere at Jersey. ' But I didn't know about 
this. I should have -thought you might have, 
seeing that you know Cornwall so well." 

' r Oh, but " 

v It was the keeper's fault really." He brushed 
I ghtly over the reproach he had half :made her. 
" Why didn't he tell us ? He must have seen us 
a 1 the time. I suspect him. He seems as if he'd 
d ine it all before. He's a pleasant fellow, very, 
-I it I suppose one never knows what is in people's 
b bids." 

She started perceptibly. Again George Calmer 
s riled. She lifted her cup suddenly, drank^from 
i and' set it down. 

" fes hot here," she said. " Suppose we go up 
t it ladder. I should like to see the lamp." 
ie nodded. They climbed two more iron stair- 

cases, passed through the low light room with 
its Argand burner, came to the bedroom, where 
another and recumbent keeper thrust bis,, head 
from a bunk to look at them, emerged into the 
service room with its' shelves, galvanometers, 
books, and papers', and finally climbed : to r the 
lantern, on the top -floor -of all. It was sixteen feet 
high, and the great Douglas six-wick burner was 
covered with red. curtains to match the colour 
of the exterior paint that it might serve as a mark 
for mariners by day. 

The keeper showed them the immense drums, 
the bulls' eyes, the winding gear; ,and ; the rest. 
They stood awhile on the platform, surveying 
the spacious scene. ^ 

The evening was quite windless, the sea was 
still and glassy, a steamer was passing ; the thud 
of her screw was plainly audible; a trail of smoke 
in the form of a succession of the letter " S " 
lay behind her, very black as it issued, floating 
at almost one horizontal level, growing gradually 
bigger and lighter in colour, whitey-black against 
a grey-white sky. Other steamers Appeared 
presently. Immense trails of smoke followed 
them. Two more trails came from now invisible 
steamers, smudging the horizon blue. 

The girl* gave a sigh of exceeding , deepness. 
Calder looked at her with some concern. 

" I hope you're not feeling worried," he said, 
gently. " After all, we must treat this as* an 
adventure, which it is." 

" No, I'm not worried. I'm only— only a little 
tired. I think i£ must be from working with the 
sun upon my back. I should Hke .to go down 
to the sitting-room. No, please don't bother to 
come with me. I would prefer alone." 

Calder bowed. She disappeared down the 
ladder: he remained talking to the keeper who 
was busy with the great lamp. The man descended 
presently and returned with Calder's camp-stool, 
then descended again. The candidate was left 
alone. And he realized that to signal to the 
shore the details of his folly would do his cause 
harm, not good. ^ 

He leaned over the .railing of the. balcony, 
looking seaward, but he saw farther than the 
water. He was back upon the I land ; he beheld 
the Delaford meeting, watched, the hall .fill,; the 
Home. Secretary, enter, and heard the comments 
on the absence of himself. He .also heard .the 
hecklers. They were asking for > Mr. Calder to 
appear^ The Home Secretary and the agent made 
excuses. The. hecklers, and their comrades jeered. 
The effect was bad — exceedingly. Indeed, this 
.absence was fatal. It confirmed waverers against 
him. .It turned over many - friends. The few 
hundred votes which would settle things either 
way were lost, not to be regained. The Home 
Secretary would never forgwe him. '. His own 
family would say : " Just like .George!^- Boor 
old Harber, who had worked sd hard for him ! 
That was all that mattered really r that was the 
only rub. ..... 

The only one ? Yes. For he, George Gakler, 
personally, did not care twopence ; indeed, 
though he would r.ct wilfully have absented 
himself,, he rejoiced at this trick of Fate. It was 
the end of hit political troubLes ; he need never 




stand again. He was spared hot nights in London, 
much vain and wearying argument, and every- 
thing that he loathed. He blessed the tide ; he 
blessed the keeper who had not warned him of 
its pace. He also blessed: — but he hesitated — for 
he was not absolutely sure. He sat looking west 
for an hour, or two hours ; dreaming remarkable 
dreams. He remained till the man who had been 
in the bunk relieved the one who had admitted 
them, till the lamp was lighted, and its great and 
luminous pencils swept the darkening seas. Then 
he descended to the living-room. The keeper off 
duty was getting supper for himself and for the 

She hardly glanced at him. They began to 
partake of the meal ; afterwards £he keeper 
offered her his bed in the upper room. She 
refused it. The man left them and turned in. 
The window of the living-room was open. The 
fire burned in the grate. More food lay handy 
for them — whenever they should have need. 

They exchanged a little conversation. She still 
seemed ill at ease. Presently she yawned. He 
suggested that they should sleep. The strong air 
had made them drowsy. They leaned back on 
cushions in their chairs. They slept beyond 
midnight, and awoke simultaneously with a start. 

There was a reason for it. The fog signals 
were bellowing ; the morning air was thick. 
They sat up and regarded each other. Calder 
rose, put on the kettle, and came back to his 

" Four o'clock ! " she said, glancing at the 
clock above the fireplace. " And the day of the 
polling ! It will be rather awful, facing your 
committee. But I suppose you don't mind ? " 

" No ; I don't mind. And for an excellent 
reason. Your brother will certainly get in ! " 

" My brother ! " 

" Yes. Your brother. I think you are Miss 
Bruce ! " 

There was a fateful silence. The girl turned 
her head away, forced herself to look at him, and 
again averted her glance. Calder smiled — not 
unkindly. His always nice voice was even nicer 

" I should be interested to know, Miss Bruce," 
he said, " if your brother is a party to this ? It 
hardly looks like it. I shouldn't credit him with 
quite the imagination or the prophetic instinct to 
tell that I was going to take a day off ! " 

She lifted her head again. This time she sus- 
tained his glance. She was smiling a little, even 
though her eyes showed shame. 

" No," she answered, slowly. " You are right, 
Mr. Calder. Frank knows nothing of this. It is 
all my doing. I knew all about the tide. I recog- 
nized who you were when you first spoke to me 
— and I had heard of people kidnapping candi- 
dates — so I brought you here to sketch ! " 

Calder bowed. He was about to answer, but 
the girl began again. 

" I didn't do it for my brother — altogether — it 
was more because of a friend who taunted me 
with staying at St. Ives, and working and doing 
nothing — you see, I've taken no part in the 
election — up till now ! She wants to marry 
Frank — and her father has lots of money — and 

they are ambitious for her, and Frank's election 
would make things sure. I suppose I've behaved 
disgracefully — but I still want Irene to get 
Frank. Though I'm sorry — far more sorry than 
I thought was possible — now I know that she was 
wrong when she said you were horrid, and that 
you are so — so different from what I thought ! " 

She ended, a little breathlessly. Calder sat 
looking at her steadfastly ; quickly she began 
once more. 

" I beg your pardon. I realize I have been 
wicked. I suppose you hate me more than 
anyone you've ever met in your life ? " 

" Not at all. Why should one hate a person 
who has done one perhaps the greatest kindness 
that one has ever known ? " 

" Kindness ! " 

" Yes, kindness. Permit me to explain ! " 

Calder crossed his legs deliberately, set his 
arms on the chair-arms, put the tips of his fingers 
together, and began to speak. 

" Your ' kindness ' consists of this," he said. 
" You have immured me here and marooned me 
— and saved me from a horrible success which 
would have settled my life iiva channel for which 
it was never intended ; and I have learned by 
^this — this accident — what I most want — and 
mean— to do ! I knew infinite happiness and 
ecstasy when I worked so hard yesterday ; it 
was the stimulus of being with someone of one's 
own kind. I shall relinquish the Bar altogether. 
I am going to give my life to paint. I have enough 
— ample — to keep me from the workhouse. Do 
you think I am an awful fool ? " 

" A fool — no. But it's astounding — positively 
— that a man with your influence and connections 
should wish to renounce the world. Doesn't it 
mean rather cutting yourself adrift ? " 

" From materialism — yes — and perhaps success, 
as the world sees it ! But — don't think me high- 
falutin — I shall possibly gain — my soul ! " 

He paused. She looked at him in amazement 
and admiration. He added a final word. 

" Now do you wonder why I am not furious 
with you — why I say that you have done me the 
greatest kindness that was ever done me in this 
world ? Let us speak no more of it. The kettle 
is boiling. I am going to make you some tea ! " 

He put words into action, cut bread, toasted 
it, cooked eggs. She sat watching him. Once 
she offered to help him. He refused. They began 
breakfast. The fog signals had ceased to sound 
now. The mist was evidently gone. 

They, were silent for many minutes. Then 
Calder raised his cup. 

" A toast ! " he said. " Frank Bruce, Esq* tJ re, 
of the Inner Temple, the member for Porth T dy 
and Pen with ! " 

She hesitated for a second, then drank and set 
down her cup. 

" The defeated candidate ! " she said. ' nd 
she rose this time and drank generously agai 

Calder bowed bis acknowledgments and ;ot 
upon his feet. 

"'The health of the real victor," he s id, 
gallantly. " Witfi the defeated Candida s's 

He drAi^'Q£Ui^HI(jAN re placed it. he 





blushed, and silence fell. It was broken by the 
sound of footsteps on the iron stairway. The 
keeper was in the room. 

" It's half-past four, sir," he said, and stood 
before them. " Unless you want to stay till 
dinner-time, you had better be going. In an 
hour it will be too late I " 

The pair looked at each other. In the pleasure 
of conversation, neither had remembered the tide. 
Calder was the first to speak. 

" Personally, I should like to spend the day 
painting ; but I suppose I had better go. Not 
that it is going to make ^ny difference. Still, I 
suppose it is my duty to return as soon as I 

" Yes ; I agree with you. For my part I ought 
to get back to our hotel. My mother was to come 
down by the Riviera Express yesterday. She 
will be wondering where I am." 

" Very well, then. Keeper, I think we will 

The keeper smiled and nodded. Miss Bruce 
preceded Calder down the successive ladders to 
the ground floor. The keeper, who followed, got 
together their things for them. Calder lingered 
behind a little, took out his pocket-book, and 
selected a five-pound note. 

" Keeper," he said, carelessly, " I am changing 
my profession shortly, but I shall not adopt 
marooning, profitable as it seems to be. I hope 
yon are satisfied* I am. I wish you a very 
• good day ! ' " 

He hurried after his companion ; the morning 
was cold a little, and the sea was quite hidden, 
but the water lay fresh in the rock pools, and 
there was an incomparable scent of the sea. 
They reached land, crossed the cliff, and found 
their bicycles : hers, too, propped beside a fishing- 
boat close to where he had left his. They were 
already rusty. But — as was to be expected in a 
country where peasants and fisherfolk are 
aristocrats — they had not been disturbed. 

Calder wheeled them up to the top of the hill 
above the little fishing-cove. She was mounting 
when he turned. From where they stood the 
white tower was visible, glorious and increasingly 
nitident in the sun which was winning through. 

" The lighthouse — where I found myself ! " 
said Calder, bowing, and taking off his hat to it. 
And he got upon his machine. 

They rode on through the yellow and sweet- 
smelling moorlands ; they passed on by low* 
walled meadows ; they saw presently the out- 
skirts of the little stone-built town. Calder 
slowed up and got down. 

" Thus far, and thus far only ! " he said, 

1 gretfully. It would never do in a small place 

] Ire Porth Tudy for you and me to be seen 

igether, coming home with the milk. We shall 

meet to-morrow, possibly — when the poll is 
declared at the Union — and no doubt we shall 
find a mutual — and introducing — friend. For 
the time, at any rate, it must be du revoir ! " 

She nodded, and put out her hand to hini. 
He took it — and held it. She did not seem to 
notice that he did not let it go 1 " 

" Considering how I've treated you, you've 
been perfectly sweet to me," she said, impulsively. 
" In fact, I think you're the nicest mao I know ! " 

" I wonder if my agent and the Home Secretary 
will agree with you ? I rather fancy they will have 
a different point of view. However, that is a 
detail. The main question is, when are you going 
back to St. Ives ? " 

" The day after to-morrow. But why do you 
ask me that ? " 

"Oh, merely vulgar curiosity. You have a 
studio on the harbour, I think you said 1 " 

" Yes. I told you so when we first met each 

" I know. And I remembered it. Are there — 
it is not the only studio in the place ? " 

" Oh, no. There are many more ! " 

" And to let ? " 

She screwed up her face and looked thoughtful. 
Then she began to smile. 

" Yes. There are some to let," she answered. 
" But not many — especially on the harbour side. 
There is just one — a big one — and it happens to 
be empty now. It is called the Yellow Studio^ 
and is only a door or two from mine I " 

Calder smiled: She smiled also. There was a 
pleasant — and final — pause. 

"You're holding my hand rather long,"' she 
said, presently. " Isn't it time you let it go ! " 

" I suppose it is. But — touching that same 
studio ." 

He stopped abruptly. Along the road, in the 
direction from which they had come, a cart was 
approaching, with the sun sparkling on its cans. 
He saw it, swore softly, stooped suddenly, and 
kissed the back of hef hand. 

" There is the milk ! " he said. " I fly— there 
is no alternative ' For the moment, au revoir ! " 

The Hon. George Calder failed to win the 
suffrages of the electors of Penwith and Porth 
Tudy by some four or five hundred votes : he 
retired — it was whispered to avoid his family 
who had heard of his marooning — to spend the 
rest of the summer at St. Ivee. He spent the 
winter there likewise — and it is probable that he 
will spend there many summers and winters more. 
His painting has improved out of all recognition . 
since he took to wife a competitor and critic in - 
the shape of the successful candidate's sister, and 
it is quite within the limits of possibility that he 
will some day become an R.A. 

by Google 

Original from 





THROUGHOUT the ages, wherever men have 
sj>eared or trapped that hard -dying, slippery 
cater of carrion, the eel, it has formed the nucleus of 
much superstitious lore. Until a few decades aeo even 
men of science admitted that the eel embodied one of 
Nature's most puzzling mysteries* because they had 
been utterly unable to discover when or where or how 
it mated and multiplied. To-day the mystery is 
solved, and in its place we have another mystery. For 
such are the strange, elusive ways of life that her one 
reason for permitting us to extend our knowledge 
seems to be a desire to reveal still more clearly the 
immensity of our ignorance. All she does, apparently, 
is to tell us a fairy-tale now and then, and we, poor 
children! swell out our chests and imagine ourselves 
magicians and readers of sphinxes* But her tales are 
good, and one of the best as well as newest is that which 
gives us the life-story of the eeh 

If on your map of the North Atlantic you draw a 
triangle connecting the Faroe Islands, the Azores, and 
Bermuda with one another, the sides of it will pass 
through the principal breeding-grounds of the common 
eeh It is bom far down in those silent* cold, and 
bitter mid -sea deeps, where the pressure is like that of 
hundreds of steel safes piled on top of one another ; 
where dwell some of the most monstrous and some of 
the most exquisite organisms known to man, and 
where the only light ever seen is a pale phosphores- 
cence that Bashes from some shadowy hunter or some 
equally shadowy prey. 

Down there the eel begins its life as a tiny, trans- 
parent speck of organic matter, one of ten million eggs 
dropped from the burst ing ovaries of the same mother- 
eel. Who knows how many of those millions are eaten 
or otherwise destroyed while floating about in those 
remote and mysterious depths ? Within those that 
survive subtle changes take place as they rise little by 
little into regions where an opalescent dawn besjwaks 
the presence of the sun above. 

And one day the egg turns into a larva, a little 
creature resembling one of those conventionalized 
fishes drawn by some early Christian on the wall of a 
catacomb* It is as thin as a razor -blade, transparent, 
and colourless* One might take it for a slight condensa- 
tion of the water itself. The eyes alone show like tiny 
dark spots on the head. When such larva? were first 
discovered in the latter part of the eighteenth century, 
and long before anybody suspected thur connection 
with the eel, it was the actual and relative minuteness 
of that head which caused scientists to name them 
Leptncephalidae, or small* heads. 

Ky and by the larva grows to a length of about three 
inches. And it grows unaccountably, for it never takes 
food. Yet it is trembling with an energy that keeps 
its nil swishing incessantly. Thus it moves steadily 

AS it 


upward and shoreward* For miles and miles the 
waters may be teeming with such little creatures. 
There are millions upon millions of them, all urged by 
the same mysterious instinct to make blindly, but 
inexorably, for the distant shores whence came the 
parent Jish. 

No sooner has the larva attained its full size than 
another change lakes place. It begins to lose its 
excessive height* Soon it looks like a ribbon* Then 
it begins to shrink along its axis* too ; and at the same 
time its sides begin to fill out* After a while the 
miniature flounder has been transformed into a 
miniature kiiiuing-needle, and measures and weighs 
about one-third less than did the larva at the height 
of its growth. In that shape it has long been known 
to layman and expert alike as a glass -eeU or elver. 
Still it remains colourless except for the eyes ; sti 1 * it 
refrains from taking food ; still it persists in swimrr ig 

One day the shore is reached ; but still the sei 
and the onward push go on* until at last the mout 1 
some hospitable river is achieved* Whether it be 
Hudson or the Thames, the Neva or the Rhine, 
story is the same* Those fresh waters pouring d 
from the uplands seem to draw the hordes of L 
glass-like creatures magnetically, and into those wa 
they turn as if steered by some unseen hand, V 
you there to w^.tch, y>u rn^ht think that all the lit 
k^LikJi ■ rlr^-rr *—- p a fr.4rppped their eyes, and 1 
all ferf^ffiyT^eriF^ river in er^ 1 



parade. That is what, since of old, has been called 
an eel fare* 

It is spring then, and the eel-to-be is about a year 
old, while about eighteen months have passed since 
the previous generation came down like silvery streaks 
with the autumn flow of some similar river, bound for 
the breeding -grounds abroad* During that first year of 
its life as egg and larva and glass-eel it has taken no 
sustenance from without (or at least we have not been 
able to find any proof of its doing so), and yet it has 
been discharging energy uninterruptedly, as if its 
minute body were stored with some radio-active 

But with the feel of the fresh water comes appetite, 
and with the food comes colour. It creej>s into the 
transparent body from the tail, and appears in spots 
along the flanks. At the same time a twofold process 
of growth and of solidification occurs , and finally we 
. behold a young eel of the familiar type, with its colour 
of muddy yellow, its pugnacious lower jaw, and its fin- 
crest, which lines the greater part of its back and much 
of its belly. 

This creature seems to live for one thing only^to 
ieed* To its larder the quick and the dead are equally 
welcome. It devours eggs and those that have laid 
them* It pokes its spade-like head under stones and 
overturns them in order to get at the small fry hidmg 
beneath them. It peers into every hole in search for 
prey. "Qie night is its fa von rile hunting- time, and it 
travels while hunting, always against the descending 
waters, always farther into the rising uplands. Through 
tributary rivers, creeks, and brooks it pokes its way* 
R crosses lakes and ponds and pods. It goes squirming 
across fields and meadows even, lest any well or spring 
remain unsearched ; for this strange creature of 
pelagic origin can live for a long time out o£ water if 
some emergency should so require* And as it hunts 
and travels it grows in .size anfl strength and wiles, 
until it -becomes the tenror of the waters in which it 
lives. This may go on for four or five or six years, 
until the female measures from three to four feet, and 
the male about twenty inches 

Then all of a sudd en t on some 
crisp and windy autumn dav, 
the secret call is heard from the 
far-ofl, salty deeps, The eel, 
wherever it be at the time, 
knows it and obeys. Its mating- 
time has come* It ceases to hunt. 
It cares no more for food. Its 
snout grows narrow and peaked. 
Its eyes grow Urge and lustrous. 
Its muddy colour turns into a 
sheen of silvery - grey. Those 
are the nuptial garments. 

At the same time strange 
stirrings pass through that Uthe, 
glistening body. New processes 
are starting up within. The next 
I itration is in the shaping, 

id al! at once the eel turns its 
! id down * stream and goes 

shing through the favouring 

ters as it it knew the way 
; d the goal beyond all doubt 
1 misgiving. And as it came* so 

: goes, not singly, but in great companies, " hurtling 
pith the spate down to the sea," as one naturalist 

its it. The males go first 5 then come the females, 

'eady swelling with their burdens of new life* 

If, as may happen, the eel had travelled three or 

ir thousand miles to reach the spot where it was 
■ ertaken by the message out of the distant deep, it 

will travel back that many miles. But the route which 
took a year or two for its covering in one direction 
will be traversed in six months when the direction is 
reversed* There is no needless zigzagging, no tarrying 
by the roadside, no hesitancy. Life has spoken /and 
in this primitive creature there is no reason to make it 
question life's command or quarrel with it. If in 
captivity when the message is received, the eel will 
do its utmost to obey ; and failing, it will die. It 
seems quite incapable of reaching full sexual 
maturity apart from the peculiar conditions o£ 
pressure, salinity, and temperature characterizing its 

But even if it is able to follow the mystic call, it 
must die as soon as the goal is reached and its mission 
fulfilled* For the law of the eel is this : from the 
heart of the sea to the heart of the land and back 
again it may travel euce, but to travel twice in either 
direction it is never permitted* Like a flower, it is 
doomed to die in turning to fruit. Upon its return to 
the destined spot there must follow some kind of 
courtship, some ecstatic dance through the darkling 
waters,, but o£ all that we know nothing. 

What we do know is that no sooner has the eel 
dropped its burden of mitt or roe than the mark of 
death is upon it. It is as if its allotted store of vital 
energy had been passed on in its entirety to the new 
generation. The eel has done its duty^ and the eel 
can go. Decay sets in: its bones gTow soft ; its flesh 
ulcerates ; its teeth fall out ; sight fades from its eyes* 
And at last the end comes, but just how who can tell ? 
The story of the eel is finished, but only to begin all 
over again in everlasting reiteration. 

For half a century American, Italian, and Danish men 
of science have been at work coaxing this wonderful 
tale from the reluct ant lips of life, taking down a letter 
or a word at a time, and reconstructing every passage 
a score of times before they dared to grant it final 
acceptance. Even now the tale is not complete, but 
one need have no fear ; it will be finished some day — 
up to a certain point. 

IT GOES ^ri4tUflfrl[/r<MffkL05S 
MEADOfft IliTO^I "PWl pWr L 

can l: 






1 c 

E pro- 
of the Australian 
Pa rlia merits 
are not always 
marked by seriousness or dullness. Occasional 
flashes of wit or humour reward the gallery -man 
for hi j close attention to what is going on. Sessional 
openings, which are as a rule as decorous as levees, 
and quite as destitute of incident, have during the 
last twenty years provided, involuntarily of course, 
episodes that have provoked broad smiles- It is said 
that George IV. , when Prince Regent, won a bet of a 
hundred guineas from Sheridan by succeeding in in- 
corporating in the Speech from the Throne the words 
" Baa, baa, black sheep," without being heard by any- 
one but the other party to the wager. Nothing quite 
so good — or should it be bad ? — as that has occurred 
in an Australian Parliament, but one very -much- 
respected Governor of Victoria left out a whole page 
of the Speech prepared for him by Ministers* The 
Government sessional programme was printed on one 
side of the paper, and his Excellency had turned over 
two leaves in stead of one* The Premier felt very much 
embarrassed, and hoped that nobody but himself had 
noticed the omission ; but his hopes were three hours 
later dashed to atoms as soon as Mr* Sjieaker made 
the customary announcement that he had attended 
the opening ceremony in " another place/ 11 and that 
the Governor had delivered a Speech, of which " for 
greater accuracy," he had obtained a copy, A Minis- 
terial supporter* who subsequently became a Minister, 
immediately rose and asked which Speech was to be 
discussed — the one of which +i for greater accuracy " 
a copy had been obtained, or the one his Excellency 
had actually delivered, which contained a page less, 
A deep silence fell upon the Chamber, and " Hansard " 
judiciously omitted all reference to the question. 

It was the same Governor who made a slip when 
reading a paragraph of another Speech. What 
Ministers had printed for him to announce was that a 
Bill would be introduced for the *' conservation ** of 
forests, but what his Excellency told the assemblage 
of eight hundred (members ana" visitors) was that a 
measure would be brought forward for the ** con versa* 
tion " of forests. One witty member of the Legislative 
Assembly, whose quick ear had detected the trans- 
position of letters, said to a group of friends* " Ah ! 
did you hear the gTeat news ? The Government is 
tfoing to put tongues in trees, and, of course, books in 
the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good m 
everything. 1 ' As the head of the then Ministry was 
fond of boasting of its achievements — so much so 
that Mr, Watt, the ex-Premier, asked him impatiently 
one night, M Oh, who made the world ? "—the comment 
was relished. 

The orator in England who said, as he wiped away 
a tear, that he missed some of the old faces he used 
to shake hands with, was nearly matched by Mr* 
Edward Murphy, who, in the Victorian Legislative 
Assembly t assured members that Ballarat was the 
finest city south of the hemisphere ; and by Mr, 
Matthews, who in the Federal House of Representa- 
tives used the phrase, *' submerged on a pinnacle of 
materialistic vapour." 


In the New South Wales Parliament there 
member named Willis (not the ex -Speaker), who 
rather long- winded. One night he had spoken charac- 
teristically, and when he had sat down, Mr. Dickens, 
son of Charles Dickens, rose and said that he had been 
struck with the difference between the character hi* 
father had created, Barkis, and the hon- member who 
had just resumed liis seat. As the House would 
remember, Barkis was will in 1 , but Willis was barkin* ! 
Not quite so clever, but still above the common- 
place, was the observation of a legislator when Sir 
W . II . I rv i n e, K X\, afterwards Co mmon weal t h At tomey- 
General, was leader of the Victorian State Opposition. 
Sir W, Irvine's followers seemed to be rather cold 
towards him, and before the opening of the ses&ion no 
seals were " pegged " out on the front Opposition 
Bench. Observing the neglect^ a minor light, parody- 
ing Moore, wrote : — 

When true hearts are withered 

And fond ones are flown, 
Oh, who would inhabit 
Thus bleak bench alone ? 
Sir James Patterson, when Premier of Victoria, went 
down to Port Campbell, scene of the Loch Ard wreck, 
to deliver an important speech . In the course of his 
address he remarked that it would be better for people 
if they would read more Bacon and eat less bacon. 
What appeared in an influential Melbourne paper was 
that it would be better for people if they would rear * 
more bacon and eat less of it. The Premier was ruffled* 
and sent for the telegraph -operator (the Post Office 
was then under State Government control) and asked 
him what he meant by sending through such a u siUy 
remark " and holding him up to ridicule- The officer, 
who is now Accountant of the Treasury, replied that 

the mistake wa* 
not his. He 
suggested dip 1 ^ 
maticallyto the 
Premier that 
perhaps after 

all the " error ' was not 
so bad, as people would 
think that he was advo- 
cating the rearing of pork 
for the development of an 
export trade. Mollified, Sir 
James told the operator 
that he would predict a 
successful career for him. 

A much more brilliant 
head of Government, when 
Treasurer, Ol*4*nd7 f r&fll " baRkis was 




1 HE 

BLAZKS ! '" 


had no Pandora's box into which 

to dip. Victoria was very thankful 

that he hadn't. 
Usual I ya model Parliamentarian, 

Mr. Murray Smith, a former 

Agent-General in London, becom* 

ing* nettled one night in the 

Victorian Legislative Assembly, 

said that Sir George Turner, the 

Premier, " stuck up with titles 

and hung round with strings," was 

not the same man as the ** plain 

George Turner'* they used to 

know, arid he went on to quote : 

11 Upon what meat does this our 

Casur feed that he has grown so 

great f *' The bte Mr, John 

Hancock, most genial of Labour 

members, who sat in the 

Ministerial corner, turned to ■ 

suburban representative and said 

in a " loud whisper ; " What's 

he want to put it that way for ? 

Why doesn't he ask the Premier 

straight out, ' Who's your butcher ? ' and give the 
honest trader the advertisement 
be deserves ? " 

In criticizing one night Sir James 
Patterson, the then Premier, the 
late Mr, Shi els was understood by 
most members to have said, * 4 You 
coward ! " but when, after the 
din had subsided, he continued, 
" I say you cowered before the 
blast of public opinion," there was 
laughter and cynical interjections, 
The verb was Parliamentary, but 
not the noun* 

Speaking in the Federal House 
of Representatives, Mr. Hans 
Irvine said that the Ministerialists 
(the Labour Party) were like the 
fox in the fable : they had lost 
their tails, and they wanted the 
Opposition to lose theirs." Amidst 
loud laughter, Mr. Carr (Minis- 
terialist) retorted ; " You must 
be very primitive over there (the 
Opposition) if you haven't lost 
your tails yet." 
A dignified elderly member of the Victorian Legisla- 
tive Assembly was addressing the House one evening, 

when the Unpulsive representative of a metropolitan 

constituency interjected in a low tone. He gave some 

answer, and the city member made a snappish observa- 
tion. The dignified member on his feet complained 

that he had been grossly insulted by the hon, member 

for . " What did he say ? " queried Mr, S|>eaker 

" He told me, sir — he told me, 

indignant one, in a tone as if 

* t was said was too dreadful 

td tendon, M to go— to go— to 

gi lo blazes I " Immediately 

U 1 e were cries from all over 

tr Chamber," Don't go! Don't 

not this ruthless surgeon's knife 
of theirs (the Labour Party's), 
that would destroy federation 
and on its ruins build an edifice 
leading to socialism," A sur* 
geon's knife for building purposes 
is not very helpful- 
It was" to Mr, Watt, the ex- 
Premier of Victoria, that a teacher 
wrote staling that he and his 
fellows must now appeal, if not 
to " the just eye of Heaven/' 
to the ** keen and vigilant eye of 
Mr. Watt, to grasp the nettle, 
call a halt, and compel the 
Education Department to return 
to the path of reason." An eye 
that can grasp a nettle is certainly 
no common one* 

When he was Minister for 
Railways in* the Irvine Govern- 
ment, Sir Thomas Bent, after- 
wards Premier of Victoria, spoiled 
the speech of a Supporter of the 
Government, who, in referring disparagingly to one 
of the leaders of a constitutional reform movement, 
said that he was politically dead, and quoted the 
opening lines of "The Burial of Sir John Moore. tT He 
got as far as 

" Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot," 
when Sir Thomas Bent interposed with the parody : — 

M As we took him home 
and put him to bed, 

And told his wife and 
his daughter 

To give him next morn- 
ing a couple of red 

Herrings and soda- 

to GO TO 


was cut 


VANQUISHED 'carbine/' 1 

sir," proceeded the 

q delivering his policy speech 
h >re the General Election 
(i 3> t when he was Opposition 
le er, Mr. C uok, the ex •Prime 
M lister of Australia, pot ra'her 
m d in his metaphor. Said 
be -But what was wanted 
v a dose of medicine, and parliament house, 

Vol. LV-s. 

The address 


For the space of two 

or three minutes Mr- 
Murray, who shortly 

afterwards became 

Acting Premier of 

Victoria,* fooled the 

Legislative Assembly 

Blast successfully when 

he was a private 

member. He was 

speaking on the Ad- 

dress - in - Reply, and 

made a reference which 

the whole House 

thought was to the Earl of Hopetounj who had fust 
given up the Governorship 
amidst the regrets of the people, 
after six years* residence. While 
the thoughts of members ran 
towards his lordship, Mr. 
Murray's were elsewhere* Said 

'* Not having reason to drag 
in the Mother Country and 
ihose who sit above the Mother 
Pa rlt ament, I think that the 
opportunity might have been 
ieWAff 1 fill up the gap by 



May, 19 e& 



some allusion to the loss of one who, although not 
born in Australia, had so endeared himself during 
his six years' residence here to the people of this 
Country that he had become their idol, • * * I 
don't wish to remind honourable members of the 
anguish we all felt when he severed his conn eel ion with 
this land. I can pay him the honest tribute of the high 
opinion I hold of the many splendid qualities that 
distinguish him above all others of his race, charac- 

teristics that were worthy of his lineage* I, of course, 
allude to the illustrious, the incomparable, the un- 
vjiii qui shed Carbine" 

The last word evoked a wild shout of laugh ter- 
Instead of the Earl of Hope to un (afterwards Marqut>s 
of Linlithgow), Mr* Murray was alluding to the depar- 
ture for England of the Melbourne Cup winner^ <*nd 
cynically touching up his countrymen on their worship 
of the racehorse. 



Written arid Illustrated hy 



IT is not difficult to make a model submarine. This 
toy, if constructed on the lines indicated, is 
wonderfully like the real thing. Jt will dive under 

water and travel beneath 
the surface for a distance 
of thirty yards, or even 
farther. The money 
outlay involved need not 
be more than a few 
pence, seeing that the 
submarine can be almost 
entirely made out of odds 
and ends to be found in 
any house. 

The first thing to get 
is a rounded piece of 
wood. This may be 
about eight inches lon^ 
iud two 
and a half 
inches in 
The softer the 
wood the 
easier it will be to cut. The toy shown in the 
photograph (Fig. 4) was made out of a bit 
of curtain ■ pole, and this answered the 
purpose in all ways* Now take a sharp 
knife and cut the ends of the piece of 
wood to points. Do this as evenly as 
possible. When the business is finished 
the length of wood wit] lonk somewhat 
like a cigar. Jr is a tfood pLiti to rub the 
wood down with glass-paper so that it is 
nice and smooths 

The next step Is to bore a bole right 
through from end to end of the piece of 
wood. This can be done with a gimlet, 
starting the boring from both ends and meeting 
in the middle ; or the ho]e may be burned out 
with a red-hot knitting-needle. In this case there 
is no danger of cracking the wood. The openings at 
the ends of the pace of wood should be widened out 
somewhat so that they will take two small pieces of 
tin tubing. The best thing for this purpose is a pea- 
shooter — to be bought for a half [jenny. Two portions 
about an inch in length are cut oft. These should 
project a little from the wood. 

The submarine must be provided with a propeller 
and also three fins. These may be cut with a pair of 

scissors out of tin lids. The designs of the propeller 
and of the fins are shown in the illustration {Fig. 1). 
Note that at the straight edge of the fins there should 
be two little projecting pieces that can be pressed into 
the wood to hold the tin shape hrmly in place. The 
(an -shaped pieces of the propeller must be slightly 
twisted, so that the whole thing resembles the propeller 
of a real ship. We shall now require a piece of elastic ; 
that sort which is used for making catapults wilh answer 
the purpose weJL This should be somewhat more 
than double the length of the piece of wood. Bore 
two holes through the profiler and pass the elastic 
through these. Now get a big glass bead, a bit bigger 
in diameter than the tin tubing which we cut from the 
pea-shooter. Thread the two ends of the elastic 
ill rough the bead and then pass the thread right through 
the hole in the hull of the submarine (Fig. 2). For 
the other end of the boat make a small handle out of 
a bent hairpin, and, when the elastic has 
been drawn through the hole rather 
tightly, fix it on to tins in the manner 
shown in the illustration (Fig. 3). Next 
make two little notches in the tube at 
the handle-end of the boat t so that, after 
winding, this is held in such a way that 
the elastic will not untwist. The driving- 
power of the toy-submarine may now be 
tested. Hohi the proj>eller with one 
hand and turn the 
handle until the 
1 a s t i c has 

FIG, 2/ — HOW THE 





acquired a 
tension. Fix up 
the handle in the 
notch in the tube, 
and then release 
the propeller, 
Tins gf>os rmmd 
at a great rate* If the hoat 
is placed on water, the pro- 
peller drives it along, but as 
yet the model is not a sub- 
marine, seeing that ft floats 
along the surface. 

To make the toy dive, and 
keep submerged, the following 
steps must be taken. Take a 
strip of sheel-iead, or a b\X of 

K1!»&W»* "J,: 

FIG. 3. — HOW THE 
r> THE 



fig. 4. — t;ie model submarine .when complete 

submarine. This should be of such a weight thai, 
when in position, the top of the boat is only just 
above the surface. Next; the fins must be put in place, 
A straight one is placed on The bottom as shown in 
the photograph (Fig, 4), The other two an* put 
one' on either side of the nose &f the boat — that is, the 
end where the handle is. These two should be just & 
little bit waved. The small projection at die ends 
of the fins will serve to fix them firmly into the 

Another trial -trip may now be made, the elastic 
being wound up in the same way as before. Holding 
the propeller, place the submarine well below the 
surface of the water (Fig. 5), Then release the hold 
on the propeller and watch the result. At first 

the little boat may try to rise, but as 
the speed is increased it rushes along 
beneath the water just like a fish, ft 
will then be realized what an interest- 
ing little toy has been made. Where 
the elastic is strong, the boat would 
travel a distance of forty yards, and 
it is great fun ; try it on a pond, A 
piece of shaped uood may be added 
at the top by way of a conning- tower, 
and the whole thing painted a dull 
^rey to give a realisrie effect. 




THIS curious design and description of an early, 
if not the first, aerial ship appears in an old 
monthly magazine, entitled the New Belle Assem- 
ble e f of September, 1835. It was then nearing 
completion j and thus would have been in process of 
construction between eighty and a hundred years ago. 
The account, apparently from the editorial pen, is 
as follows 3 — 

" We have been favoured, through the politeness of 
the proprietor. Count Lennox, with the accompanying 
representation of this stupendous machine — the only 
tmrect one, we can assure our readers* hitherto pre- 
sented to the public, though numerous unauthorized 
sketches and caricatures of this ingenious vehicle 
have been put forth by ignorant or interested persons, 
more for the purpose of bringing the system of aerial 
navigation into ridicule than of affording any real 
information to the curious. Every invention must 
have a beginning and have the rocks and shoals of 
prejudice to surmount ere it can be brought to per-" 

*' This singular traveller upon the pathless fields of 
air is being fitted out for its first voyage at Kensington. 
The ordinary spherical balloon is from its shape wholly 
at the mercy of the winds, whereas the aerial ship is 
capable of direction, 

" Count Lennox, the inventor, wisely turning to 
Nature for a model, found one in the fish, and, in fact, 
his work should be called the Aerial Leviathan, or 
the Great Air Serpent, Its body is oblong, some 
hundred and sixty feet long, sixty feet high, and forty 
feet wide. The portable gas cylinder would convey 
an idea of its shape to anyone who has not seen the 
likeness of it in miniature* At either end it runs off 
to a point- This vast reservoir contains two hundred 
thousand cubic feet of gas, and is made with silk and 
cotton mixed, thoroughly varnished with india rubber, 
so as to be perfectly air-tight, 

"It may ascend into the air with a buoyancy of 
fifteen thousand pounds being filled with pure 
hydrogen, and one of ten thousand pounds only being 
filled with common coal-gas* 


8 4 


"The weight of nil the materials employed and of 
the whole machinery is about Three thousand potmdSj 
so it may really carry up in the air, besides its own 
weight, a crew or cargo varying from seven thousand 
to twelve thousand pounds, according to the purity 
of the hydrogen. 

" If the wind should prove only slightly contrary, 
Count Lennox hopes to keep his course by means of 
two wings or tins at each side of the vessel, of broad 
superficies and light construction, and also by means 
of two fan-tails, one behind and another before f the 
one behind intended to act after the manner of the 
tail of a fish, and the one before to help the motion 
of the^ other by acting contraryways. These two fan- 
tails are fastened, not to the great air cylinder itself P 
but to the machine in which the voyagers take their 
places, and which, being made of network, and as 
little solid material as possible, is suspended beneath, 
and very close to the gasometer. It is long and 
narrow, and holds the machinery for working the wings 
or fins and the two rudders. If the wind proves very 
contrary, Count Lennox does not intend to struggle 
against it, but to ascend into another stratum of air 
to find another current, or descend towards the earth 
for the same purpose. It may be remarked that t by 
a partial ascent or descent, an unfavourable may be 
changed for a favourable current. 

li Une of the most satisfactory parts of the whole 

arrangement of the machine is that which renders 
ascent and descent perfectly easy* Here again the 
economy of the fish's construction is had recourse to. 
Within the vessel is an air balloon, to correspond 
with the air bladder of a fish. This can be filled or 
exhausted at pleasure by very simple means. If it 
be filled with atmospheric air, the gas in the cylinder 
may be compressed to such a decree that, what with 
the ballast in the boat, the whole machine becomes 
specifically heavier than the air around it, and it 
des rends accord i ng! y . 

14 An inflator of simple construction is carried in 
the boat. Thus the Airship may travel as near to the 
earth as the voyagers may desire. Should they wis} J 
to ascend, the air balloon is exhausted, the gas expands, 
the cylinder is of less specific gravity than the air, 
and it rises. 

rt Count Lennox calculates on being ready for his 
first trial by the end of the present month. He is but 
making an experiment in which he deserves encourage- 
ment. He intends generally to go with the currents, 
and not at all against 'hem.' 1 

In view of our air service to-day* this is strange and 
quaint reading, but it is impossible for us not to 
recognize the debt of gratitude we owe the pioneers 
of this great work,, who, in face of supreme difficulty 
and apparent failure, truly paved the way for those 
who came after them. 


A LAMP that sings and 
XX. talks and does all the 
other things that we expect 
from a high -class phono- 
graph has been developed 
by a New York inventor, 
TTiis device, which is called 
a phono -lite, combines a 
practical and artistic read- 
ing-lamp for the library* 
table with that universal 
entertainer, t h e talking- 
machine. When not in use 
for the latter purpose, there 
is nothing to indicate that 
it is anything more or less 
than an artistic lamp, 
fonned of metal and carry- 
ing a silk shade over a 
ground -glass diffuser* By 
raising the hood a trifle, the 
phonograph is disclosed, 
a machine that plays any 
record disc up to and 

including the twelve -inch 
si ze. Instead of the horn as 
a sound-difluser, the stem 
of the lamp is utilized, and 
the glass shade which sur- 
rounds the bulb is funnel- 
shaped, acting as a horn. 
The operation of the phono- 
graph does not conflict with 
the lighti ng, as two switches 
control the lamp and the 
mechanism that plays the 
phonograph and rewinds it. 
It is believed that the novel 
combination will find favour 
with people who dislike the 
appearance of the common 
type of talking- machine, 
with its obtrusive horn ; 
while the fact that it takes 
up no additional space will 
make it welcome where a 
bulky cabinet -type ph sino- 
graph would find no room. 


^jyo not forget thai The Strand Magazine may now be sent post free to British 
soldiers and sailors at home or abroad. All you need do is to hand your copies^ 
without wrapper or address , over the counter at any post-office in the United Kingdom, 
and they will be sent by the authorities wherever they will be most welcome. 

by K: 



Ungmal tram 







Make a rough diagram on a sheet o( paper, in the 
manner shown, and place twenty-four numbered 
counters in the positions indicated. The puzzle is to 

get the counters int» 
numerical order by 
moving them one at 
a lime in knight's 
moves. No, 1 should 
be where 16 is, 2 
where 11 is, 4 where 
1 j is, and so on. It 
will be seen that all 
the counters on 
shaded squares are 
in their proper posi- 
tions. Obviously the 
first move must be by 
r, 3, or io, to the 
vacant square, then the next move must be by 23, 4, 
8, or 2i, and so on. As there is never more than one 
square vacant, the order in which the counters move 
may be written out as follows: 1, 21, 14* 18, 22, etc. 
Now, can you perform the feat of getting them in 
order in the fewest possible moves ? 


I have: three small square garden beds of different 
sites* The middle-sized one contains exactly five square 
feet more than the smallest, and the largest contains 
exactly five square feet more than the middle-sized 
one. Can you give exact dimensions for the three 

beds? — 


Probably few readers of these pages have seen 
my old bun puzzle, so I will reproduce it. The three 
circles represent three buns, and it 15 simply required 
to show how these may be equally divided among 
four boys. The buns must be regarded as of equal 
tbicknes.s throughout and of equal thickness to each 

other. They must be Cut into as few pieces as possible. 
To simplify it T will state the rather surprising fact 
that only five pieces are necessary, from which it will 
be seen that one boy gets his share in two pieces and 
tic others receive theirs in a single piece. I am aware 
t tat this statement somewhat ** gives away " the 
I azzle, but it should not destroy its interest to those 
i "to like to discover the H reason why." 



A CGRRE3 pon dent sends me the following new 
iriation of an old friend. Though it looks rather 
implicated and difficult, it is absurdly easy if properly 
tacked. But 1 am sure it will interest and amuse 
v readers. If a hen and a half lays an egg and a half 
t day and a half t how many and a half who lay better 
half will lay half a score and a half in a week and 

Here is a well-known English word, 
read it? EioioooioooioooUNliooATXN. 

Can you 

Solution* to Last Month s Puzzles. 

35 6,_A ** STRAND" PUZZLE- 

The illustra- 
tion shows how 
the letters of 
"STRAND" may 
be placed, each 
letter eight times, 
so that no letter 
is on the same line 
as a similar letter. 

557— THE 

Any combina- 
tion must fall into 
one of the follow- 
ing groups i ti) Where all.the stroke men are taken from 
the live, giving 75 arrangements, (3) Where only one 
of the two is stroke, giving 50. (3) Where the other 
one of the two is stroke, giving io + (4) W r here both of 
the two are stroke, giving jo arrangements. There are 
thus 145 different selections in alL Many will give the 
answer as 185, overlooking the fact that in 40 cases 
in class (3) the same eight men would be rowing as in 
class (a), though the pair would be on different sides. 

K* * "'\ 



If the enclosure is to be rectangular, the nearer 
the rectangle approaches to the form of a square the 
Greater will be the area. But the greatest area of all 
will always be when the hurdles are arranged in tha 
form of a regular polygon, 
inscribed in a circle, and if 
this can be done in more 
than one way the greatest 
area will be when there 
are as many sides as 
hurdles. Thus, the hex* 
agon given last month 
had a greater area than 
the triangle. The twelve- 
sided figure or regular 
dodecagon therefore en- 
closes the largest possible 
area for twelve hurdles— room for about eleven sheep 
and one-fifth. Eleven hurdles would only accommodate 
a maximum of about nine and nine -twenty -fifths, so 
that twelve hurdles are necessary for ten sheep. If 
you arrange the hurdles in the form of a square, as 
shown by the dotted lines, you only get room for nine 


Ait tut r could do the work in 14 J J days, Benjamin 
in I7jf days, and Charles in 23/f days* 




Illustrated by G. E. Siitddy. 

HEN Mr- Herbert Wilson died, 
his wife said that there was 
no longer any necessity for 
her to live in London. For 
twenty years past she had 
lived principally in London* 
Her husband's practice as a 
solicitor had required it, and she herself had 
been a distinctly sociable person, having many 
Mends and many enjoyments. But after 
Herbert's death she felt tired. Poor dear 
Herbert during the last few years of his life 
had been very tiring. He was a nervous 
invalid, and one nervous invalid is capable 
of lowering the vitality of ten strong dray- 
horses, if brought into social contact with 
them. She spoke of his death as a release, 
and so it was. Herbert was not the only 
person released, 

She decided to live in the country, of which 
she knew very little. The phrase M old-world 
garden/* not infrequent in the house -agents' 
advertisements, attracted her. She had always 
been fond of flowers, and had got them in 
k r reat perfection and at considerable cost at 
the shop in Piccadilly* That was the limit 
of her knowledge. She knew nothing of their 
culture. Her nature was distinctly a town 
nature, and she did not in her heart believe 
that wild animals, such as cows, ought to be 
allowed on the public roads. That did not 
matter* She was much too old for dancing. 
She was weary of dining out. The theatres 
were all too preposterously bad. London was 
a dirty hole, and the peace of the clean 
country attracted her* 

She found in the end just what she wanted* 
Many house-agents had done their utmost for 
her, and, incidentally, for themselves. Her 
many friends had made many inquiries in 
many directions. At last, on a fine morning 
in ^lay* she saw Buckle's Farm, and decided 
that this was really It- 
It had many advantages. To start with, 
it was not a farm at all It had in the days 
of George IV., when it was built, been a farm- 
house. It had been last occupied by some- 
body with Mrs, Wilson's own taste for properly 
modified rusticity. It had electric light, com- 

pany's water, two bathrooms, and a telephone. 
The lower rooms of the house were alJ panelled. 
The only ground attached to it consisted of 
three acres of walled garden, and that garden 
was almost ostentatiously old-world. It had 
flagged paths. The previous owner had seen 
to this, and had been careful to arrange for 
moss and flowering plants in the crevices oi 
the stones. Every thoughtful house-agent 
knows that this is distinctly an old-world 
feature, It had a beautiful stone sundial, 
which looked as if it had been there ever 
since the house was built, and, as a matter of 
fact, had been bought in Great Portland Street 
about six years previously. There was a 
fountain (by arrangement with the water 
company) 3 and goldfish swam in the pool 
below, " The goldfish have to be renewed 
occasionally," the previous owner had con- 
fessed* Yes, the place was full of charm, 
but somewhat sophisticated : in both these 
respects it resembled its new owner, Mrs. 

Buckle's Farm was a little over a mile from 
the railway station, and an excellent train 
service took one to London in just under the 
hour — not that that mattered, of course. At 
the end of six months Mrs. Wilson was able 
to declare, and did declare with suspicious 
frequency, that she had never once been to 
London since she had taken up her residence 
at the farm. Simply hadn't thought about it. 

It must be admitted that to some extent 
London had come to Mrs, Wilson, She had 
so many friends, and it is impossible to drop 
all your friends, The spare bedrooms at 
Buckle's Farm were generally occupied during 
the week-ends in the summer. Mrs, Wilson 
was unable to get the London morning papers 
before ten, and she was very apologetic to 
her guests about this inconvenience ; in her 
secret heart she gloried in it. It seemed such 
absolute and convincing proof that she was 
really quite out of the world. 

And then came the simply disgusting dis- 
covery that in the country there is a succession 
of the seasons. As at present arranged, the 
winter comes after the summer. The garden 
begaWl't&rfcloW' Wmch less beautiful. As the 



result of a severe frost, the plumber had to 
be called in to attend the charming- fountain, 
and Mrs. Wilson decided not to renew the 
goldfish again until the spring. The cement 
used in the construction of one of the flag- 
paths went deplorably wrong, and Mrs. Wilson 
realized that it takes a lot of trouble to keep 
up in an old-world place a decent amount of 
decay without decrepitude. The evenings 
were long, and she could not spend every 
evening with the Hendersons, or the Mackels, 
or any of her other friends in the neighbour- 
hood. She enlarged her library subscription. 
She burned great logs of wood in an open 
fireplace, and derived some satisfaction from 
knowing, and letting others know, that she 
did it. On several occasions she said bravely, 
but inaccurately, that, though she always 
loved the country, she thought she loved it 
most in the winter. Her friends in London 
did not, perhaps, share this view. They all 
longed for another delightful week-end at 
Buckle's Farm, but, what with one thing and 
another, they seemed unable to arrange it 
before the following spring. At Christmas 
her house was full, but at the end of January 
she began to read " Robinson Crusoe," with 
more sympathy for that pious fraud than she 
had ever felt in her childhood. 

One afternoon Lady Mackel looked in 
about tea-time, and Lady Mackel did not 
play the game at all. 

" Pretty rotten down here in the winter, 
isn't it ? " said Lady Mackel. " I am making 
George take me up to the Carlton for a week. 
He says he can't afford it, which is probably 
true, but I told him that if I stopped here 
without a change I should probably go mad 
and drown myself in the beastly old moat." 

The moat was quite genuine and authentic. 
Mrs. Wilson had often envied it. 

" Why don't you go and stop with some of 
your relatives in London ? " 

" Oh, no. Not for me. Nor for George. 
We did a pious week of that at Christmas, 
but this time I want a real holiday, and to 
get a real holiday one must have freedom. 
There is nothingl hate more than considering 
other people's feelings, and making allowances, 
and aU that sort of thing. Mind, I (fan do 
it when I must, but you can't pretend there 
s any sport -about it. Why don't you shut 
xhis old shanty up for a week, and come 
along too ? " 

" It would be delightful," said Mrs. Wilson. 
" But, you know, I love the country even 
more in the winter than in the summer." 

" Rot, my dear. You don't. Nobody 
does— at least not this sort of country. I 

wouldn't like it to be generally known, but 
we are as nearly as possible in a suburb. 
Don't you get tired of being alwavs alone 

" No, Jane, I don't think so. Of course, 
sometimes one wishes that more things would 
happen. But I don't really want excitement. 
Besides, one is not entirely alone. People 
do come down to see one." 

" I know. Relatives will go anywhere. 
But it's my experience that when you have 
got them you wish you hadn't." 

u To-morrow I've got two women coming 
down from London to lunch with me, and they 
are not relatives. They are not even friends. 
I never saw either of them in my life before. 
You had better come along, too, don't you 
think ? " 

" It sounds a little dangerous. How did 
you come to do it ? Of course, one does get 
pretty desperate in this dead-alive place." 

" It was more or less forced on me. One 
of them is a Miss Colt — Isabel Colt she signs 
herself. She is doing tremendously good 
work. She runs happy evenings for school 
children in London, and she wrote to me for 
a subscription. A friend of mine gave her my 

" The way one's friends give away one's 
address is simply shocking," said Lady Mackel, 
with conviction. 

" I thought," said Mrs. Wilson, a little 
hesitatingly, " that this was a case where 
perhaps one might give one's personal services 
and not merely money. The great drawback is 
that, if I consented to do anything of the kind, 
it would take me up to London occasionally. 
I love this quiet spot even more in winter 
than in summer." 

" You said that before." 

"Did I really ? Well, anyhow, Miss Colt 
is coming here to-morrow morning, and as 
the best train arrives just after twelve, I simply 
had to ask her to lunch." 

" I see. And who is your other pal ? " 

" She is a Miss Waterbrook, and I am told 
she is very clever. " She is doing a series 
of articles called ' Interesting Homes.' It 
comes out in some magazine or other. She 
wants to do an article on Buckle's Farm. 
You'd like to meet her ? " 

" No, my dear. She had the cheek to write 
to us, wanting to do an article about our place, 
and it annoyed George quite a good deal. He 
refused on a postcard. I didn't read it, but 
I wouldn't mind betting that it was rude. 
She is one of those persistent people who want 





and kindly thing, and, of course, you are 
going to be punished for it," 

Mrs. Wilson laughed, ** Oh^ it won't be so 
bad really. I think I have been rather smart 
in working them both off at the same time. 
And perhaps I sha'n't let Miss Waterbrook 
write about this place after all. If I don't 
like her, I can always send her on to some 
friend who has got a still more interesting 

M You've got absolutely no conscience. I am 
going to leave your contaminating presence. 
But do come round and see us afterwards, 
and tell us how you get on with these wild 
women. 15 

At twenty past twelve next day Mrs, Wilson 
was out in her garden at the back of the house, 
telling her gardener various things that he 
knew before t while he listened with an air of 
respectful attention. After all, it made a useful 
break in the day's work, and nobody could 
grumble at it, 

A maid came out of the house to tell her that 
Miss Waterbrook was in the drawing- room, 

" Very good," said Mrs, Wilson. f< Tell her 
that I won't keep her a minute." 

She resumed and completed her instructions 
to the gardener , and walked slowly up towards 
the house. As she n eared it, the maid came 
out once more to say that Miss Colt had arrived 
and was also in the drawing-room. At the 
same time Mrs. Wilson became conscious of 
curious noises. There seemed to be evidence 

that somewhere in the proximity a healthy 
dog-fight was taking place. 

The maid also heard those noises. 

" Both the ladies had little dogs with them, 1 ' 
she said, explanatorily. 

" All right," s^d Mrs. Wibon, * l Never 
mind. I'll see to it." 

She paused a moment outside the drawing- 
room door. It sounded a little as if the dog- 
fight were dying down and a cat-fight had 
taken its place. One woman was speaking 
in loud and determined tones, the other in 
aggrieved and plaintive. They both spoke at 
once j and seemed to have more to say than 
they could compress into the time. At intervals 
two dogs yapped furiously. Mrs. Wilson 
opened the door and entered. 

She saw before her two ladies, seated as far 
apart as the dimensions of the room would 
allow. One of them came very near to being 
fat. She held under her arm a black Pekingese. 
A useful working arrangement seemed to have 
been arrived at between them by which, when 
Miss Waterbrook stopped to pant the dog 
began- to yap, and when the dog stopped to 
pant Miss Waterbrook resumed her discourse. 

The other lady, Miss Colt, instrumental in 
giving so many happy evenings to so many 
children, was at present restraining on a lead 
something that might very easily have been 
mistaken for an Irish terrier. The terrier 
seemed upset,. very, much as if he had been 
interrupted in some haif-finished work. Por- 
tionil Uf i 1 Efeilff Tflift Ul£ rtlift tJarpet indicated 



what the work had been. Miss Colt was still 
speaking continuously, sometimes to the dog 
and sometimes to Miss Waterbrook, and some- 
times confusing the two. 
Both the ladies rose as Mrs. Wilson entered. 
44 1 am so sorry this should have happened, 
Mrs. Wilson/' said Miss Waterbrook, breath- 
lessly, " but this lady here most deliberately 

set her dbg — if you can call it a dog " 

At the same time Miss Colt said, " I am 
only too grieved, Mrs. Wilson, but I cannot 
blame myself. A quieter dog than Peter 

when he is not " 

Peter resented any imputation of quietness. 
He explained in a loud voice that he wished 
to devour what was left of the black Pekingese, 
wipe out Miss Waterbrook, and then clear 
the house of other obstructions, including 
Mrs. Wilson. At the same time the Pekingese 
explained rapidly in the Chinese language 
that he desired to be set down in order that 
he might show what he could do when he was 
not taken unexpectedly. 

Both the ladies shook hands with Mrs. 
Wilson, and she attempted to say soothing 
things. She was quite inaudible. Miss Colt 
and Miss Waterbrook continued to address 
Mrs. Wilson, each other, and their respective 
dogs in a very deluge of words. Mrs. Wilson 
was faintly conscious of splashes of it, rendered 
entirely without punctuation. It arrived 
somewhat in this form : — 

44 Of course I have never met this lady before 
— yap yap yap — what really happened was — 
yappity yappity yappity — I said to her — be 
quiet you brute — of course her dog was 
simply looking for trouble and you can't 
expect a weH-byed Irish terrier to stand still 
when its hind leg is being chewed by a 
demented pom — yappity yappity yappity yap 
—not one word of truth in the whole of that 
statement and the mere fact that she does 
not know the difference between a pom and 
a Pekingese shows conclusively — but all the 
same I must really apologize to you Mrs. 
Wilson and' if this lady happens to be a 
personal friend of yours — nobody has any 
business to take out a tiger not under control 
—Chang do keep quiet tor a moment — yappity 
yappity — large masses of his coat torn out 
as you can see for yourself on the carpet 
and it may be weeks before — all I wanted to 
point out was not fit to have the care of 
a canary much less a dog — yap yap yappity — 
if you would kindly not interrupt when I am 
speaking — until I have a chance to — shall 
certainly take my legal remedy — the facts 
are perfectly plain and no attempt on her 
part— yap yap yap — what I want you to see 

is — what I really regret is — what is perfectly 
obvious is — if you will kindly let me speak — 
if you will oblige me by not interrupting." 

There came one moment oi absolute silence, « 
due to total exhaustion. Two dogs and two 
ladies panted heavily. Mrs. Wilson took 
advantage of the moment. 

44 So sorry ! " she said. " It's my maid's 
fault really. When she saw you both had 
dogs with you she should have shown you 
into different rooms. Now, what are we to 
do ? I don't really know either of you, but 
I had hoped that you would both meet here 
and " 

44 Impossible ! " said Miss Waterbrook and 
Miss Colt, simultaneously. 

44 Then I'll tell you what we'll do. One of 
you will stop now, and the other would per- 
haps be kind enough to come and see me some 
other day." 

44 Thank you very much," said Miss Water- 
brook. " I could not possibly do myself 
justice if I remained. I have been too much 
upset by this outrage ; for which, of course, 
I know that you are not responsible, Mrs. 
Wilson. Writing as I do for something like 
a million and a half of readers, I feel it my 
duty to give them the best that is in me, and 
in the circumstances " 

44 On the contrary," said Miss Colt, 
44 it is I who will go. I have the interests of 
millions of poor children to consider, and I 
cannot pursue my efforts to bring a ray of 
supshine into their unhappy lives while I 
am " 

44 Will you be good enough to be quiet ? " 
said Miss Waterbrook. 44 Mrs. Wilson and 
I have already settled this matter. Good- 
bye, Mrs. Wilson. I will try to make an 
appointment for some day when you are not 
seeing applicants for the housemaid's place." 

44 Vulgar impertinence, fortunately, has no 
effect upon me," said Miss Colt. She would 
have continued, but she was too late. Miss 
Waterbrook had already passed out into the 
hall. Mrs. Wilson of necessity followed. 
There was only one course open for Miss 
Colt. She bu/st into a flood of hysterical 
tears. The alleged Irish terrier sat up and 
sang a dismal psalm in E minor. 

Mrs. Wilson, returning from her farewell 
of Miss Waterbrook, found Miss Colt still 
slightly hysterical, but absolutely determined. 
The terrier had given up contrition for the 
moment and was trying to eat a piece of coal. 

Miss Colt refused all offers of hospitality. 
She must go at once. She recognized that it 
was not Mrs, Wilson's fault, and would make 
another appointment. But she was not really 


in a condition then to explain her efforts to 
bring that little ray of sunshine as stated, 

Mrs, Wilson allowed her to go, and then 
rang the bell. 

" I find I shaH be alone at lunch after all," 
she said to. the maid. i4 Those two ladies 
decided not to stop. I suppose they will 
catch the one-fifteen all right ? " 

" 1 don't think so, madam. The one- 
fifteen is Saturdays excepted." 

** So it is. Oh ; well, then, they will catch 
some other train, There's a lot of black 
fluff on the carpet. Just see to it." 

Mrs. Wilson went out into the garden* 
She did not lunch till half- past one, and she 
had time for reflection. She happened by 
chance to reflect on the extreme foolishness 
of asking two people to meet one another 
when you did not know them and they did 
not know each other. Her reflections were 
interrupted by her maid. 

4i One of those ladies has come back again , 
madam/ 7 

" Good heavens ! Which one ? " 

" Miss Water brook — the rather stout lady 
vJth the little black dog. 1 * 




i OX! 

:t as you 

Mrs, Wilson went into the house to 
her, and found her smiling and composed. 

" I am sure/' said Miss Waterbrook* " tl 
you will forgive me for this little piece 
strategy. That Miss Colt, or whatever 
name is, was absolutely in the wrong, 
course, but one has a certain amount of pri< 
I was not going to let her confer a favi 
on me by being the one to withdraw, 
instead of going to the station I turned up 
hill, and watched till I saw her safely off 

ct That was frightfully clever of you," 
Mrs* Wilson, politely. "' So ] sha'n't have 
lunch alone after all/' 

11 It's so good of you to let me stay, 
a matter of fact, my little article about your 
beautiful home has to be in the printer's hands 
by Monday } and so there would have 
no time for another appointment." 

t( Good/' said Mrs. Wilson, " I shall ji 
have time to show vou the garden befc 

Miss Waterbrook went into the garden 
also into ecstasies. She admired everythii 
intensely. She said that it was just like 
stepping down into 
eighteenth century, 
absolute peace of it 

" I suppose/' said Mr 
Wilson, " that most people 
would think it far more, 
beautiful in the summer, 
though I personally love 
the country even bett 
in the winter. The sunc 
has an interesting motto 
it. You might liketu m 
a note of it." 

Miss Waterbrook hiati 
her note. Chang, the littli 
black Pekingese, friske 
about happily, forgetful 
past sufferings, Ihe St 
shone. All nature smiled. 
And then something terrific 

When Miss Colt arri 
at the station she mat 
the discovery that 1 te 
rne-fifteen did not run : 
Saturdays, and that th 
was no up - train l>ef" 
four- twenty. Her first t 
. pulse was to go to the lil li 
can si^'IW 1 * station hotel for lunched 
Qf'JIVlRSlTYOF^tHI^Nwas a clever i 



woman. As 
there w as no 
sij^n of Miss 
Waterbrook on 
the station plat- 
form, it seemed 
to her practically 
certain that Miss 
Waterbrook had 
gone to that hotel 
for lunch. It 
would be ex- 
tremely unplea- 
sant to meet her 
again. Also, by 
this ti me Miss Colt 
had recovered her 
composure. Why 
pay two railway 
lares when one 
can be made to 
serve the pur- 
pose? Mrs .Wilson 
did not lunch till 
half- pa st one j and 
there would be 
just time to get 
iiack to Buckle's 
Farm. The train 
service would be 
an excellent 
excuse. So she 
went back. Her 
terrier released 
from the lead, 
seemed to delight 
in Ms freedom, 

Miss Colt and the terrier entered the drive 
at the moment when Miss Waterbrook was 
closing the notebook with the inscription in 
it. The two ladies began with great prompti- 
tude, but in spite of that the two dogs started 
first. The dog -fight in the drawing-room was 
but a pale shadow of the dog-fight that took 
place in the garden. The Pekingese did better 
than might have been expected, but the 
terrier was too strong and heavy for him. 
The arrival of the gardener saved the situation. 

The matter had gone now beyond mere 
recrimination. Miss Waterbrook, clasping a 
wounded Pekingese to her considerable front- 
age ? was yet able to make a note of Miss Colt's 
name and address and to assure her that the 
matter would be placed in the hands of her 
solicitors. Miss Colt, restraining a perturbed 
terrier with the crook of her umbrella through 
its cottar, made a note of Miss Waterbrook's 


w. & 





name and address, and assured her that the 
usual action for damages would now be 

Mrs, Wilson lunched alone after all. 

On Sunday j as they came out of churchy 
Lad} r Mackci tackled her, 

" How did your freak luncheon-party go 
off ? " she asked. 

"I am going to London 
after all," said Mrs. Wilson, 

And it was more of an 
question than it sounded, 

lt That's splendid/ 5 said Lady Mackel 
" We'll have great larks." 

for a few days 
answer to the 

I'm not going for larks." 
What then ? " 

" Me ? I am going for a rest cure;" 

And then, beinsj urgent! v required to do so, 

shee ^^Mfe MICHIGAN 


One Arabian Night. 



Illustrated by W\ Meat a Rooinson, 



ACK and I were walking along 
the shore at low tide when we 
saw a queer copper pot lying 
on its side. It was very heavy, 
and as we stood it upright we 
noticed that the mouth was 
closed with lead> 

" Doesn't it remind you of 

the copper pot the fisherman found ? " asked 

Jack, staring at it intently. " You know, the 

chap in the * Arabian Nights ' who went fishing 

and caught a dead donkey and other rubbish. 

And then he drew up a copper pot 

with a genie inside, and had no 

end of a good time/' 

Of course I remembered the 

tale, and said so, and we bent 

down to have another look. 

" See, Geoff/' cried Jack, ex- 
citedly, " here is the impression 

of a seal on the lid. I'm sure there 

must be something inside, or why 

should the pot be fastened up so 

tightly ? Let's open it and chance 

what happens ." 
M Wait a bit," I said. " When 

the fisherman opened his pot, 

didn't the genie thirst for his 

blood and threaten to kill him * 

Now suppose there is a genie in 

our pot, how are we going to 

manage him \ " 

"Why, easily 

enough/* replied my 

twin. " We'll raise 

the lid the least little 

bit, and ii any smoke 

comes out, as it did 

in the 'Arabian 

Nights/ we'll bottle up the genie and think 
things over." 

So we knelt down on the sand, and with the 
help of Jack's knife loosened the leaden lid with 
the seal on it. Very slowly Jack drew it out Ol 
the mouth of the pot. Suddenly a blinding 
column of smoke rushed out of the vessel, full in 
Jack's face. 

" Quick, Geoft ! " he shouted, " Jam the lid 
in! It's a. genie after 
all/' And I jammed it 
in, you may be sure. 







When our eyes had stopped 
smarting from the smoke, we 
turned to the copper pot again, 
and what do you think we saw ? 

On the edge of the pot a huge 
head was balancing itself, wbixfxng 
round and round at express speed. 
Four horns stuck out of its shaggy 
hair and its face was as ugly as a 

As we watched the head, it 
gradually slowed down and at last 
stopped and glared at us, 
We returned the stare with interest, for never in all 
our lives had we seen anything so hideous. 
At last the head spoke in a terrific voice. 
" I am a genie/' he thundered. " Rash mortals, I will 
destroy you for daring to make a mock of me. Open 
the lid of the copper pot at once and release my body." 
tJ Now look here." I said to the angry genie, H is it 
likely we are going to help you to kill us ? Haven't 





'• "JC f 



— * 





you the sense to see that you are at out 
mercy, and we can do as we like with you ? " 

At this the head spun round again, faster 
and faster, in a dreadful fury. 

* I say, Geoff /* whispered Jack, " let us 
tell the genie we will free him if he will give 
us a real Arabian Night's adventure. Wouldn't 
it be sport ? *' 

" Rather,'* I said* " Hi, stop your revolu- 
tions and listen to me ! " I shouted to the genie. 

The head came to rest with a 
jerk, and glowered, 

" You know very well you can't 
get back into the copper pot because 
of the enchanted seal," I pointed 
out, " neither can you get the rest 
of your body out 
without our help. 



It evidently has not occurred to you that if we 
leave you here you will be drowned at high tide." 
It had not occurred to him ; we could tell by 
the look in his eye as he twirled round to gaze 
at the rising tide, 

" Now if you will give us a real Arabian 
Night' s adventure, and swear not to harm uk ( 
we wiU release you," I finished. 

* I swear by all the gods in earth, air, and sea/' 
said the genie, ** that you shall have the adventure 
and that I will not harm you." 

" Mind you stick to your word, old boy/' said 
Jack, as he took out the lid. Immediately a thick 
smoky mist poured out of the copper pot, and in 
a few seconds it had turned into the genie, all 

Talk of giants ! Why, that genie could have 
patted the tallest giant on the head, and it made 
our necks ache to look up at him. But we hadn't 
much time to take stock of the genie, for suddenly 
tossing us one on to each shoulder, he rose into 
the air, and we could feel the wind rushing by, as 
he swept along above the clouds. I don't know 
what Jack did, but f grabbed the nearest horn 
for dear life, and hoped for the best. 

It did not seem more than a minute before the 
genie swooped down to earth again and landed us 
in a wood. 

" This is the land of the Arabian Nights," he 
Said, " 1 have taken you back eleven hundred 
years, and if you don't nnd any adventures it 
will be your own fault. Farewell 1 " And he 
vanished through the earth. 

Jack and I were rather 
taken aback by his abrupt 
departure, but when we 
looked at one another we 
nearly had a fit. We were 
dressed in Eastern clothes, 
turbans and all, 

" Oh, I say, Geoff," spluttered Jack, " you 
should see yourself in a turban. You look like 
Jemima when she has been washing her hair." 

" What about yourself ? " I retorted. 
" Wouldn't tlie fellows at school yell if they 
could see you now ? " 

" Well, never mind," replied Jack. " It's the 
custom of the country. Let s see if this path 
leads to that gold dome shining through the 

It did ; in fact, it led us right to the gates of 
a huge palace built of pink marble, with rainbow- 
coloured windows, with the gold dome rising 
high in the centre. Crowds of people were passing 
in and out of the gates, so we just walked in, too, 
and presently came to the foot of the steps lead- 
ing into the palace. 

They really were fine steps, each one a block 
of solid glass, with a queer- loo king beast made of 
glass with ruby eyes silting on guard at each 

" I wonder what the creatures are supposed to 
be ? " said Jack. " We haven't such things in the 
Zoo at home," 

I had opened my month to answer when a 
trumpet rang out; and there on the topmost step 
stood the most gorgeous individual I'd ever been 
out of a pantomime- 

"In the name of the Sultan ! " he cried, and 
all the folk stood still. 

fK We can understand what he's saying/" said 
Jack, in my ear. 

"Of course," I muttered, " A knowledge of 
the language goes with the clothes. Be quiet and 
listen to the man. + 

The trumpeter blew another blast with great 
satisfaction at his own importance and an- 
nounced :— Original from 

ie »?M«W(** t, "" :,,i " t 

in the se. 

is [iT'cs..nce 




Then came another flourish on 

th? trumpet. 

" Come on, Jack," I said. " Here is the very 
thing we are looking for." 

"I'm with you," he said, and we ran up the 
glass steps. 

" Alas ! " cried a man in the crowd. " You 
are going to your deaths. Where are the young 
men who have gone before you ? " 

And the crowd answered, " L>ead, dead, dead ! " 

" They sound cheerful, don't they ? " laughed 
Jack, as we followed Scarlet and Gold into the 
Sultan's presence, and salaamed profoundly. 

11 Will your majesty deign to tell your humble 
servants t]ie service you require of them ? " 
I asked, in my best manner. I heard Jack snigger, 
but I promptly stood on his toe and brought 
him to his senses. 

M Young men," replied the Sultan, raising his 
weary eyes, M a month ago my son Prince 
Kashimir went hunting in the wood beyond the 
palace. Since then no word has come, and I am 
distracted with grief." 

We could see he was. Why, there was a silver 
table by him piled with the most beautiful cakes 
and fruit, and he hadn't touched one ! 

" If you restore my son, I will give you the 
half of my kingdom and my daughter in mar- 
riage," added the Sultan. 

"Oh, thanks awfully," I said; "but we are 
doing it for sport, don't you know ? " 

" And you needn't bother about the daughter," 
broke in Jack, hurriedly. " Although we appre- 
ciate your offer." 

" I don't quite understand you," said the 
Sultan, in a puzzled voice. " But I will bid 
my slaves attend to your wants ere you depart 
on your^ourney." 

So he clapped his hands, and a dozen black 
slaves appeared. They ushered us into a small 
room hung with cloth of gold, and we took our 
seats on a pile of cushions. It was rather awk- 
ward to tuck our legs away in the correct fashion, 
but we managed it somehow. Then the slaves 
brought in refreshments on golden salvers, cakes 
and fruits and iced sherbet, and there wasn't 
much left when we had finished. 

Leaving the palace, we headed for the wood, 
in which the genie had first dropped us. 

" One road is as good as another," I observed. 
" Suppose we take every path to the right and 
see where it leads to ? " 

" Very well," replied Jack. " It's all the same 
to me." 

After about an hour's tramp we came to a clear- 
ing in the wood. At one end stood a big white 
house surrounded by a high wall, and from the 
house came the sounds of music. 

" I wonder who lives there ? " said Jack. 
" Perhaps we can get some news about Prince 

14 Suppose you go and ask ? " I suggested, 
" and I'll wait outside." 

" All right," agreed my twin. " I won't be 
a minute." 

But he was more than a minute, and when a 
quarter of an hour had gone by and no sign 
of him, I got a bit anxious. There was a tall 

tree growing against the wall, and in less than 
no time I was up among the brandies. The 
first thing that struck me when I looked over 
the wall was the number of black dogs walking 
aimlessly about, or lying in corners with not a 
word to say for themselves. Raising my eyes. 
I found that there was an open window just 
opposite the tree, and that I could easily see into 
the room. To my astonishment I saw Jack and 
a lady reclining on cushions at the table. The 
lady was very beautiful, although there was 
something about her expression I didn't like. 
Her dress was of silk, and round her neck she 
wore three strings of pearls as big as peas, 
with an emerald the size of a pigeon's egg hanging 
from the centre. Jack seemed to be having & 
good time, when suddenly the lady picked up 
a glass of water, exclaimed " Turn into a black 
dog ! " and flung it into his face. Instantly 
the poor chap disappeared, and in his place 
stood a dog just like those in the courtyard. 
Then the wretch seized a whip and drove him out 
of the room to join the dogs outside. My blood 
was boiling, and it was all I could do to stay 
in the tree. As Jack came running down the 
steps, all the dogs in the courtyard gathered 
round him, lifted up their heads, and howled 
I understood now that they were the fellows 
who had come in search of the Prince, and had 
met the same fate as he had at the hands oi the 

When the tumult had died down, I whistled. 
Jack saw me in the tree, and came close up 
to the wall. " Keep your heart up, old boy/ 
I whispered. " I am determined to find some 
way of getting you out of this place. I am awfully 
cut up about it." 

Jack nodded his head, and I slipped down the 
tree and wandered on through the wood, trying 
to think of some plan to break the enchantment 

Gradually the wood thinned, and presently 
I came out on to the highway. Farther along 
I saw a dervish sitting at the cross roads. 

" Pity the poor, brother," he begged, holding 
out his hand. Luckily the genie had provided us 
with Eastern money, and I dropped a gold piece 
into his lap. " May your shadow never grow 
less," he ejaculated, in great joy. " But you look 
weary, brother. Have you travelled far to-day ? ' ' 

He seemed such a good old soul that I sat 
down beside him and told him all about Jack. 

" Alas ! " said the dervish, " it is a woeful story. 
There is only one way to break the power of 
that Enchantress. Once let her leave the grounds 
of her house and her spells will come to naught." 

" How am I to get her to come out ? " I 
asked, impatiently. 

The dervish stroked his long beard and smiled. 

" That woman is very vain of her beautiful 
voice," he explained. " Now I know the where- 
abouts of a magic harp that can play any melody 
on earth. Such a harp would tempt her from 
the security of her house." 

" Where is it ? " I demanded, jumping up. 
The dervish stood his stick upright on the 
ground, mumbled a few words over it, and at 
once that ata.cV. Has fitted with a pair of long, 




'* Follow the stick wherever it goes," said the 
liervish, " and it will lead you to the resting-place of 
the magic harp." 

So I thanked the old chap and hurried off in pursuit 
the stick, which was covering the ground in fine 
After a time the road sloped down hill, until at 
we were in a narrow gorge , with the rocks towering 
high on either side. It was almost dark by now, and 
I could hardly see where I was going, but the stick 
hopped along and I followed. At a bend in the path 
the stick halted , and when I came up I saw a great hole 
in the rock. In climbed the stick and of course 
so did I, although if it hadn't been for Jack 
I would have thought twice about it, I found 
mysdf in a small cave, and in the gloom I could 
just see a golden harp at the back of the cave. 
It didn't take me Song to snatch the harp, and 
taming round I was making for the open air 
when a lion rose up out of a corner , and advanced 
on us with bristling mane* My heart leapt into 
my mouth, but the wily stick tapped the lion 

smartly on the nose, 
and before the brute 
recovered from his 
astonishment we were 
flying down the gorge 
at top s£*ed. 

Well, I got back 
to the dervish, and 
he told me to beware 
of the Knchantress "s 
grounds, although I 



didn't need the 
warning, you 
may be sure. 
Then I said 
shouldered the 
harp, and soon 
reached the 
place of spells. 
The night had 
fallen and the 
house was so 
brightly illu- 
minated that 
the light 
streamed out 
over the road. 
I took my 
stand full in 
the light and started to sing. 1 felt 
a silly ass and no mistake, but the 
harp chimed in and bucked me up 
wonderfully, I had hardly begun 
tlie second song when the witch 
appeared at the door, 

" Fair youth," she cooed , in silvery 
tones t " whence cometh that mar- 
vellous music ? " 

" Madam/ 1 I replied, " from my 
magic harpj" 
" 1 would it were mine/ 1 she said, longingly. 
" It will give me great pleasure to present it 
to you, madam/' I protested, bowing low* 

"Then carry it into my house/' she invited . 
" Alas, madam/' I sighed, " I am under a vow 
not to enter any habitation for the space of a year." 
1 saw the Enchantress wavering, and I ordered 
the harp to strike up again. That decided her. 
She came running across the road, but scarcely 
had her foot crossed the threshold than there 
was a blinding Hash, a deafening roar, and down 
came the house in ruins, When the dust had 
settled, I saw a crowd of young men coming to 
meet m e , wi t h J ack lead i ug t h e way . 1 n two shakes 
we were hugging one another like mad, while the 
chaps gathered round us and cheered. Near by, 
the Enchantress lay dead, clutching the harp. 

Of course, the chaps were the black dogs Vd 
seen in the courtyard, and Prince Kashinur said 
such things 1 couldn't dream of writing down. So 
1 assured him it had been a pleasure (not exactly 
the truth, you know, but one must be polite), and 
we all started to walk back to the Sultans palace* 
Now, as we were walking through 
the wood, suddenly the genie ap- 
peared, snatched us away from the 
startled eyes uf our companions* 
and whirled us oil into space. Then 
he dropped down to earth again, 
landed us on the very strip of sea- 
shore on which we had found the 
copper pot. a-nd vanished. 

It was early morning, and the 

tide was going out. As we looked 

out to sea. we saw the waves 

altftfcDIflTing object which 

u\'frUHJs; njys. It was 


\We shall be flaA to festive ConlribuU&ni la Ihu $etiian A and U> pay jCf siteh at arc accepted.] 

of bits, a white line drawn across it, and a 
having with some trouble been captured, was 
nn the line so that lie was sitting along it with his I 
just touching. His captor gently let go of him, wh 
I expected to see him run away, but, to ray astoni 
merit p having raised his head perhaps an inch from 1 
line, he remained without moving exactly as plac 
for between five and ten minutes, when he suddenly 
walked away, looking a triEe dazed and very foclkh, 
1 thought this behaviour must be due to some pecui- 
arity of the cock, so repeated the experiment with * 
white hen. The effect was the same : she remained 
apparently hypnotized by the line for rather lc 
than the cock, then got up, shook herself, iuid 
off, I have no explanation to offer, and can 
vouch for what I saw — namely, that the white 
appeared to mesmerize the fowls and render 
incapable of moving for about ten minutes. 
Frances Pitt, The Albynes, Bridgnorth- 


PROPELLED by cylinders furnished with 
flanges t a sledge has been invented by 
Burch, of Michigan, which is unlike any other ve 
in existence. The sledge is propelled by a g* is -engine 
which drives the cylinders in a rotating motion &i 
ritfht angle? to the road, and the flanges engage in tht 
snow or ice of the surface and send the machine forward 


HOW the Australian abort gin us obtain i heir canoes 
practically ready-made is clearly shown in the 
abnve striking photograph* It will be observed 
that they have removed from one of the mammoth 
trees a huge section of bark, which, coming away in 
one piece, is su shaped that only a very liule is required 
to make it into quite a serviceable canoe* — Mr. M. 
Milling on, c/o Kodak, Ltd-, Argent Street, Broken 
Bill, Australia, 


THE accompanying photograph shows a trick I 
have sometimes seen played on fowls. The 
Smooth brick floor of the great barn was brushed irt.-n 

at a slow rate of speed. Powef. 
not speed, is the aim desired, and 
as this vehicle will traverse frozen 
lakes or snotv*covered lields v 
would be impassable for ordinary 
motoi*ve hides, the sledge is ai 
able for hauling logs in the 
Michigan forests* Its tractive p. 
is shown by the load of a doacq 
passengers hauled bv thi 
device. It will be observed 
it is steered by a single runner jo 
front, turned by the steering- 
wheel of the automobile body that 
forms the upper part of the sledgi:- 
|X Mr* C. t- Edholm, 68, We.t 
alMftPS-seventh Street, New Yo: 








A Shampoo with Lux is both delight- 
** f ul and beneficial. Its rich lather 
thoroughly cleanses and invigorates 
the hair and scalp. Washing the hair 
is oft-times something of a task, but 
with Lux there is no trouble at all. 

Lux cleanses bobbing curls and long tresses 
alike, giving them that silky glossiness so much 
desired. Lux is just as good for shampoos as it 
is for washing dainty fabrics. A twopenny 
packet of Lux is sufficient for four shampoos. 

In 4d. & 2d. Packets everywhere. 




2 AND 4. 



Pf\noli i • Original f rom 



(See page io3,, 



VoL 54. 

AUGUST, 1917, 

No. 320. 

Tke Magic 
ox Munammed Dm. 


Illustrated ty ^W\ Reynolds and G. H. Evison. 

HE intense heat of the day- 
was already a memory of un- 
easy sleep, and the distant 
hills seen across the plain of 
grey, sun-baked mud were soft 
in a soft sky. Right across 
the horizon, as seen from 
the Political Officer's bungalow, stretched the 
mountain range, rising from deep blue at the 
base through a gradation of fairy amethyst 
and turquoise to a delicate pink suffusing the 
sammits. The Political Officer, his left elbow 
resting on his writing-table, his fingers caress- 
ing the bowl of the old &riar whose stem was 
gripped between white teeth, tobacco-smoke 
wreathing away from him, contemplated it 
with bent brows and narrowed eyes. The 
gaze of that lean face, sallow with many 
Indian summers, roved not over the distant 
prospect, tempting though were the transitions 
d flaws of changing colour on crag and peak 
left and right of the point on which his 
sion was fixed. His expression was stern, 
e thrust-forward of his clean-cut jaw 
rcdominant. Esthetic enjoyment of the 
ipect of the frontier hills thus perfidiously 
k autiful in the everting light had no part in 
s meditations. 

Hie curtain of the door was plucked aside, 
long-robed native, white-bearded, entered 

Ir'oL 1W.— 7. Copyright, 1917, by 

noiselessly, bowed, with arms outstretched 
from his sides, stood erect and waited for 

The Political Officer responded with a nod 
to the " Salaam, Sahib" His gaze detached 
itself from the distant view, ranged keenly 
over the tall figure in front of him. Under 
the swathes of the green pagari that narrowed 
the brown forehead a pair of dark eyes of 
strange intensity met his own. The disturbing 
effect of their direct gaze was heightened by 
the bushy white brows under which they 
glowed. The big, beaked nose, thin-bridged, 
emphasized their power. The long, white 
beard spreading over the breast solemnified 
them with a hint of ancient wisdom. The 
eyes of the white sahib and the ascetic Haj 
(as his green turban proclaimed him) met 

" The Sahib asked for the fakir Muhammed 
Din— is it well, Sahib ? " 

" It is well, Haj" replied the Political 
Officer, a twinkle in his eye and a subtle 
emphasis on the title. 

" Did not the Prophet throw his green 
mantle over Ali that he might himself escape 
, from his enemies, O Protector of the Religion ? " 
replied the fakir, a little piqued. 

" Maloom". £'.it is known "), said the 
Political Officer, curtly but with a-' tbn& of 

F. Britten Am rtifRSI TV C H IG A N . , "' I '. I 



friendliness. " I called you not to discuss 
the religion, but to protect it. I have 
work for you, Muhammed Din — dangerous 

"It is well, Sahib." 

" An emissary of our foes is among the 
tribes, Muhammed Din, and is preaching a 
false gospel to them. War and the woes of 
war will surely follow if we do not still his 
tongue. Listen! You have heard that the 
infidel Caliph Willem of the West has falsely 
proclaimed himself a follower of the Prophet 
that he may use the power of true believers 
to further his own wicked ends ? " 

" It is known, Sahib" 

" He has sent one of his tribe, dressed as a 
fakir, into the hills to preach a new Jehad. 
Already the mullahs (priests) are gathering 
about him. This fakir calls himsejf Abd- 
ul-Islam, but he is aFeringhi, no true believer, 
and no true friend to the religion. Yet he is 
leading many astray, for he deludes them 
with a false magic. You will see for yourself. 
You remember the magic pictures you saw 
at Karachi ? " 

" I remember, Sahib" • 

" It is such magic as that. There is none 
but Muhammed Din I might safely trust to 
close the mouth of such a rogue ; therefore, 
Muhammed Din "—the eyes of white sahib and 
Moslem fakir again looked into each other — 
"lam sending you on the mission. I asked 
you to come as a fakir because I judged that 
to be your best disguise. You have come as 
a Haj } which is even better. I do not want 
this impostor killed, if it can be helped. I 
want him exposed, discredited. I send you, 
Muhammed Din," He looked at him with 
significance as he. added : " You may find an 
old acquaintance." 

The fakir stroked his long beard. 

" He shall be brought to you riding back- 
wards upon an ass, and the women shall mock 
at him, Sahib. I swear it." 

The Political Officer smiled. 

" None can if you cannot, Muhammed Din. 
Now I will explain these things to you more 

The Political Officer spread a map across 
the table and pointed out the route of the 
German agent across the Persian frontier and 
among the hills. His present abiding-place 
was fairly accurately known. The pseudo- 
fakir attentively considered the ways to it. 
Then he drew himself erect. 

" It is well, Sahib. I will now go." 

" You have a plan, Muhammed ? " 

The fakir smiled grimly. 

" Tins dog has his fake magic, Sahib , but 

Muhammed Din knows many magics that are 
not false. I have sworn." 

" Go, then. Allah be with you ! " 

" And with you, Sahib ! " 

Muhammed Din salaamed once more, lifted 
the curtain, and passed out. The Political 
Officer watched him go across the compound, 
and then bent down to his work again with a 
little outbreathing of satisfaction. The Secret 
Service had no more reliable man than 
Muhammed Din. 

The squalid little village high up in a deft 
of the brown and barren hills, that gleamed 
golden aloft where they cut sharply across 
the intense blue of the sky, was filled with 
an uncommon concourse of tribesmen* And 
yet more were arriving. Down the stony 
paths which led to the village from the heights, 
up the boulder-strewn, dried-up stream-bed 
which afforded the easiest passage from below, 
the hillmen hurried in little groups — a bearded 
khan, a modern rifle on his shoulder, his 
cummerbund stuck full of knives, followed by 
a ragged rabble of retainers, variously armed. 
Their weapons were mementoes of generations 
of rifle-stealing and gun-running.^ Lee-En- 
fields, Lee-Metfords, Martinis, Sniders— all 
were represented. Not a few carried the old- 
fashioned jezail, the long-barrelled gun with 
inlaid, curved stock. All had knives. 

They swarmed on the rough roadway 
between the squat stone, windowless houses 
whose loopholes were eloquent of their owners' 
outlook on life. They clustered round the 
stone-parapeted well in the centre of the 
village, so that the women with the water-pots 
were richly provided with an excuse for 
loitering. The clamour of excited voices re- 
sounding from the walls was re-echoed at a 
fiercer shout from the steep, towering hill- 
sides, stone-terraced near the village into plots 
of cultivated land. 

This was no ordinary assemblage. From 
far and near the tribesmen swarmed in, and 
men met face to face whose habitual encounter 
would have sent both dodging to cover, rifle 
to the shoulder. The blood-feuds were laid 
aside. Families that for months had lived 
in terror of their neighbours across the village 
street, quitting their domiciles stealthily by 
the back way when they had occasion to go 
out, while the sudden rifle-shot of the con- 
cealed marksman added steadily to the tale 
of vendetta victims on both sides, mingled 
now with the throng, albeit cautiously. Men 
whose dwellings were a- doorless tower which 
they entered and left by a basket on a rope, 
who tilled their fields with ever a rifle in their 

LTNIV tK_>l I r Ur mlLrlKirtN 



hand, strode now down the street, their dark 
eyes roving from side to side, and passed their 
adversaries with scarce a scowl. Mullahs, 
Koran in hand, their young disciples at their 
skirts, threaded their way through the crowd, 
giving and receiving pious salutation, ex- 
horting, preaching, inflaming the fanaticism 
of passions naturally fierce. The blood-feuds 
between man and man, village and village, 
were forgotten in the reawakened, never- 
extinguished feud between Islam and the 
infidel. Behind the priests marched men 
armed to the teeth, their faces working in a 
frenzy, their eyes inflamed. They were ghazi 
— wrought up to the pitch of fervour where 
their own life is a predetermined sacrifice, so 
that they may first slay an unbeliever, sure 
of immediate Paradise as their reward. 

Above the murmur of voices came the 
continual drone : — 

" La Allah il Allah ! There is no God but 
God, and Mohammed is His Prophet ! " 

It re-echoed down the valley in sudden 

Into this excited throng strode the green 
turban, the venerable figure of Muhammed 
Din. piously telling his beads. Men jostled 
one another out of his way, for this fakir was 
quite obviously an especially holy man, one 
who had made the pilgrimage. Giving and 
receiving the Moslem greeting, " May the 
peace of Allah be with you ! " he inquired the 
house of the village mullah, and made his way 
towards it. 

He met the priest just on the point of 
quitting his dwelling. The mullah had a busy 
and important look. It was a great day for him. 

" The peace of Allah be with you! " said 
Muhammed Din. 

*' And with you, O holy man ! " replied the 
mullah. He scented an application for hospi- 
tality. " Blessed is the day that you come* 
to us, for Allah worketh wonders in my village. 
Many have come to witness them. Alas ! 
that you did not come before, holy one, or 
my house that I have already given up to 
others would be yours ! " 

" A corner and a crust of bread, Mullah ! " 

" Alas ! Allah be my witness ! Neither 
remains to me, O holy one — but I will lodge 
y< u with a pious man when the saint whom 
A ah has sent to us has finished the wonders 
h< is about to show. I must hurry, holy 
oi e ! for the moment is at hand. The peace 
of Allah be with you ! " 

Allah has guided my footsteps to you, O 
M .llah, for I have come from a far land to 
se these wonders. I will accompany vou, 
fo it is His will." 

" Hurry, then!" said the priest, irritably, 
" or Shere Khan's house will be full. Allah 
knoweth that I praise Him for thy coming ! " 
he added by way of afterthought. 

The house of Shere Khan, the headman of 
the village, was besieged by a turbulent crowd 
of tribesmen, who jostled one another for 
entrance. In view of the limited space within, 
only those known to be most influential were 
admitted. They deposited their weapons as 
they entered. 

Muhammed Din followed the mullah, who 
bustled in with an air of great importance. 
The largest room of Shere Khan's house, a 
gloomy, stone-walled apartment, almost com- 
pletely dark since the loopholes high up were 
stuffed with rags, was set aside for the occa- 
sion. More than two-thirds of it was already 
filled with tribesmen, who squatted on the 
floor. The remaining portion was rigidly kept 
clear by one or two of Shere Khan's armed 
retainers. " Sit farther back, Yakub Khan ! 
More space, O Protector of the Poor ! Farther 
back, O Yusuf, lest the miracles about to be 
performed by the will of Allah scorch thee ! 
Back, back, O children of the Prophet ! I 
entreat ye ! " The entreaty was emphasized 
by sundry kicks which the sentries grinningly 
delivered with a sense of the privileges proper 
to such an occasion. 

The wall at the end of the clear space was 
whitened. High up on the other wall, behind 
the tribesmen, was a newly-erected box of 
wood, large enough to hold a man, supported 
on pillars of light timber, and only to be 
reached by a ladder, of which there was at 
the moment no sign. The tribesmen turned 
their heads curiously towards this unusual 
contrivance and nudged and whispered to one 

" Behold the cage in which the saint keeps 
the devils over which Allah and the Prophet 
have given him power ! " 

Those who were nearest it stirred uneasily. 

" What if it should be the will of Allah that 
they break out of the cage ! " 

" We are God's and unto God shall we 
return ! " replied his neighbour, nervously, 
quoing the verse of the Koran which gives 
protection in time of danger. " May Allah 
protect us ! " 

Muhammed Din sat modestly among the 
throng, telling his beads with bent head. 

" What thinkest thou of these wonders, 
O holy one from a far land ? " asked the man 
next him. 

" The wisdom of Allah is inscrutable and 
much that is hidden, si all be yet revealed," 
replied Muhammed Din, solemnly. 




There was a stir of expectation throughout 
the gloomy apartment. The mullah entered 
by a door at the farther end, near the whitened 
wall, uttered a sonorous benediction, and sat 
down, with grave self-satisfaction, in the front 

One minute more of tense waiting — and 
then, amid a low murmur from the assembly, 
the curtain at the far door was again lifted. 
The " Saint " appeared. For a moment he 
stood in a dramatic pose, illumined by a ray 
.of light from without as he held back the 
curtain. Then, dropping it, he strode solemnly 
forward into the cleared space. Every eyo 
gazed at him with an avid curiosity. The 
light in the doorway had revealed him as a 
youngish man, despite the full beard which 
lent him dignity. His stately carriage of the 
long Moslem robes, dimly perceived in the 
gloom, was worthy of his role. 

He stretched out his hands. 

" The peace of Allah be with you ! " he 
said in a deep tone that had only the faintest 
tinge of a European accent. 

In a low deep chant of awed voices the 
assembly returned the salutation. 

" children of the Prophet ! Men of the 
hills ! Greeting ! Greeting not from me but 
from the greatest Sultan of the world ! " He 
spoke in their own dialect, but with a strong 
admixture of Persian words. u Listen! Ye 
know already — for his fame has passed the 
confines of the earth — that the great Sultan 
Willem of the Franks was visited by a vision 
from God, and that having had truth revealed 
unto him he turned aside from the error of 
his ways and embraced the true faith. 
Written in great letters of gold over the 
Sultan's palace shall ye find the sacred 
words : " There is no God but God and 
Mohammed is His Prophet ! " 

He stopped to allow his words their full 
effect. A murmur of wonderment came from 
his audience. " A-ah ! God is great ! Unto 
Him be the praise ! " 

He resumed. 

" And with him turned all his vizirs and 
mullahs and khans- from the false belief and 
called on Allah and Mohammed. I — even I, 
Abd-ul-Islam, who stand before you — am one 
of them. The Sultan Willem issued a decree 
to all his people that they should believe in 
the true faith — and lo ! Allah wrought a 
miracle and they all believed, destroying their 
false mosques and building new ones to the 
glory of the Prophet. Great is Allah and 
Mohammed His Prophet that these things 
should have come to pass, O children of the 
Faith ! They are hard of belief, for the 

Franks ye well know are a stiff-necked race. 
Yet such it is, and my Lord the Sultan hath 
sent me on an embassy to you that I may 
tell you these marvellous things. And that 
ye may more readily believe, Allah in His 
great mercy has given me power to show you 
these wonders with your own eves." His 
tone took on a deeper, more sonorous solem- 
nity. u O Allah ! Allah ! In the name of 
the Prophet, vouchsafe that these thy children 
may see the great Sultan Willem as he is at 
this moment 1 " 

He clapped his hands sharply together. 

Instantly a beam of intensely white light 
shot across the dark apartment from the 
" cage " and fell upon the white wall .-at the 
other end. The " Saint " stepped quickly 
out of the radiance. On the white surface 
there suddenly appeared a life-size portrait 
of His Imperial Majesty Kaiser -Wilhelm II. 
— gowned in long robes and coiffed icith a 
turban. A gasp of astonishment broke from 
the peering spectators in the. dark room. 
Once more the " Saint" clapped his hands. 
The Imperial figure walked in stately fashion 
straight towards the audience — seeming that 
in another moment it would be walkihg out 
in the air over its heads — stopped, stretched 
out its right hand, smiled. The muscles of 
its face moved, the mouth opened^ — in a speech 
that none heard. " Ate I Aie I " broke from 
the spellbound tribesmen. 

" Alas ! that he is so far .away that ye 
cannot hear his words ! " lamented the 
" Saint." " But I can hear them. He tells 
you to believe in me, who am his. messenger, 
by the grace of Allah and the Prophet. 
Allah, vouchsafe that these Thy followers 
may witness with their own eyes the con- 
version of the vizirs trt the true faith ! " 
Again a clap of the hands, and the picture on 
the wall changed. '.'*"" 

. The tribesmen gazed at what to a- Western 
eye would have been an obviously cardboard 
imitation of an Oriental room* with a dais on 
one side of it. On that dais stood the figure 
in Moslem robes. Filling the remainder of the 
room was a throng of men in German uniforms, 
pickelh'dube on their heads. They advanced 
one by one to the figure on the dais>k£ t, 
offered up their spiked helmets, and recei >d 
in exchange a turban from their graciou y- 
smiling lord. 

" See r O people, and believe ! " cried ie 
" Saint." 

" Ate I Ate!" came the response. " *e 
see and we believe ! God is great ! Thei is 
none great but God, and unto Him be al 1 ie 




" Listen ! true believers ! 
The Holy Prophet kid a com- 
mand on the great Saltan 
Willem that he should imme- 
diately convert alt the 
Frank ish nations to the true 
faith. And the Sultan Willem 
gave glory to Allah that tins 
command was laid upon hfrm 
He sent forth his armies in 
the great Jehad. The Sultan's 
armies are the most numerous 
and bravest in the whole world 
— not Timur nor Rustum 
mijL'ht have stood against them 
— and none may count the 
mimher of their victories in 
the £Teat war against the 


heads," 1 imiversITY OF MICHIGAN 




infidel Franks. Their triumphs are as the 
rocks on the hill-sides, beyond reckoning and 
eternal. All the nations of the Franks fled 
before them, and were slain like dogs as they 
ran. And most of all fled before them and 
were slain the insolent English dogs that, 
thinking themselves far away from the power 
of the Sultan Willem, are puffed up with a 
vain pride and tread upon the neck of the 
true believer in the land beyond the Indus 
— nay, who invade your hills and lay waste 
your crops, seeking to destroy the one true 
faith. Is it not so ? " 

" Allah knoweth ! He speaketh through 
thy lips, holy One ! " was the chorused 
reply from the darkened room. There could 
be no denial of any statement from a source 
of such sanctity. 

" Look then upon the battle and the 
destruction of the English dogs ! " cried 
Abd-uMslam, giving the signal once more. 

Immediately another picture appeared upon 
the wall — a picture of pseudo-British troops, 
uniformed so as to be familiar to the tribes- 
men, taking up a position for battle. 

" Watch ! children of the Prophet ! " 
cried the wonder-worker. " Behold the djinns 
which the Sultan Willem has under his com- 
mand — for to him has the Prophet given the 
power of Solomon — behold the djinns that go 
before the Sultan's army destroying the 
English infidels ! " 

Great founts of black smoke leaped up 
among the soldiers on the wall— debris was 
flung high into the air — bodies lay upon the 
ground, visible where the smoke cleared. The 
soldiers fired quickly from behind cover, 
dodged, flung up their arms, and fell smitten 
by an invisible foe. The picture, though a 
" fake/' was cleverly done and would have 
deceived more sophisticated spectators. The 
tribesmen did not suppress their exclamations 
of awe and wonder. 

" Behold ! " cried the showman. " The 
soldiers of the Sultan advance ! " A serried 
line of German infantry swept across the 
picture, bayonets levelled, and the survivors 
of the defending troops fled before them. The 
line changed direction and marched straight 
towards the spectators, an irresistibly ad- 
vancing menace, swelling larger and larger, 
uncannily silent. 

Shrill cries of alarm broke out from the 
darkened room. " Aie ! Ate ! Allah protect 
us ! We arc God's and unto God shall we 
return ! " 

'ITie line of infantry swelled to a superhuman 
immensity, seemed on the point of reaching 
the spectators — and then there was darkness* 

From the gloom came the voice of the 
German emissary. 

" You have beheld, children of the true 
Faith, the infidel English ran like dogs ! " 

<l Like dogs they ran ! With our own eyes 
we have seen it, praise be to Allah ! Death 
to the infidel ! " 

" Now see the soldiers of the Prophet, the 
victorious army of the Sultan, destroying the 
Christian mosques in the conquered country ! " 
announced the showman, in a voice of triumph. 

On the wall was thrown the picture of a 
Belgian village church. German soldiers were 
busy about it. Then volumes of smoke began 
to issue from the windows, tongues of \flame. 
The roof fell in. The church was reduced to 
a ruin. 

" Behold ! Ye see with your own eyes ! " 

" We see, we see ! God is great ! Unto 
Him be the praise ! " came the reply from the 

" Now see others ! " cried the German. 
" This is the work of the Sultan's armies- 
will ye now doubt that he has set his face 
against the Christian infidels ? " 

Picture after picture of ruined and desolated 
churches followed upon the wall. The German 
authorities had evidently prepared a special 
film of them. Cries of wild approbation broke 
from the fanatical tribesmen, the mullahs 

u Once more, O people, look upon the 
English prisoners, whose lives have been 
spared because they have embraced the 
true faith, being led through the Sultan's 
capital ! " 

A film of a few British prisoners from 
Gallipoli being marched through the streets 
of Constantinople was then shown, amid 
shouts of applause. 

The picture was taken off, but the beam 
of light still blazed across the room. The 
German placed himself full in it. 

" Ye have seen with your own eyes, O 
warriors of the hills ! Praise be to Allah for 
His mercies ! Ye will no longer doubt. In 
the name of the Prophet, the Sultan Willem, 
the protector of Islam, commands that ye 
rise up and sweep beyond the Indus. Every- 
where the power of the English is broken. 
With your own eyes ye have seen it. Only 
on your borders do they still keep up a vain 
show. Rise up, O children of the Prophet, 
and sweep these dogs of infidels into the sea ! 
The rich lands of India and much loot will 
be the reward of your valour. Paradise 
awaits those who fall in the sacred fight ! 
The green banner of Islam shall wave over 

^wtem^^teM 110 God but God ' 



Mohammed is His Prophet, and the Sultan 
Willem is His chosen instrument ! " 

Karl Schultz felt an inward glow of triumph 
at his own histrionic power as, his words 
ringing sonorously through the stone apart- 
ment, he stood in the full blaze of light and 
raised his arm. It evoked loud shouts of 
fanatic frenzy from the excited assembly. 
They clamoured to be led against the infidel 
there and now. He kept his arm outstretched 
as though to still the tumult, as though his 
discourse were yet unfinished. 

But the cries would not cease. " Great is 
Allah ! Death to the infidel ! Death 1 Allah ! 
Allah ! There is no God but God ! Allah ! 
Allah ! Allah ! Death to the infidel— death ! " 

Suddenly there was a new element in the 

vociferation, a movement among the assembly 

far back in the dark room. " Make way for 

j the holy man with great tidings from India ! 

Make way for the Haj I In the name of the 

| Prophet — make way, dogs that ye are ! " 

Schultz looked towards the venerable figure 
of Muhammed Din pressing through the 
throng. A sudden doubt leaped up in him, 
was extinguished in self-confidence. The 
strange fakir approached. The wild clamour 
of the tribesmen was stilled in curiosity. They 
fell hack in a sudden awe. 

Schultz watched the venerable stranger 
advance solemnly, silently, into the blaze of 
light in which he himself stood. Again he 
was conscious of an instinctive tremor. " The 
peace of Allah be with thee, O Haj 1 " he said, 
and he found that he had deliberately to 
control his own voice. There was something 
uncannily impressive in the advance of this 
silent, dignified old man. 

" And with all the faith fol ! " came the 
sonorous reply, enigmatic to the German's 

He found himself looking into a pair of 
strangely disturbing eyes ; heard, with a wild 
reeling shock of the spirit, his own tongue 
spoken in a low, level Oriental voice. 

" Move not a finger and make not a sound, 
Schultz Sahib, or you are a dead man ! " 
Schultz Sahib's eyes glimpsed the muzzle of 
a pistol not six inches from his chest. 
%f ile, Sahib I or your friends may interrupt 

ting once ceded to the menace of the 
p J, the German's brain could not resist 
ti command of the imperative eyes that 
» led to be boring deep into him. He 
s ^d — a deathly smile. 

fou have forgotten me, Schultz Sahib ? 
I i not so long since we worked together on 
t -uilway. One of us at least learned a 

great deal about the other in those days, 
Sahib. Smile 1 — keep smiling ! " 

A wild revolt surged up in the German, 
subsided, without exterior evidence, under 
the glare of the dominating eyes which held 
his fascinated. He tried to turn away his 
gaze, was checked by the level, purposeful 
voice of the fakir. 

" Keep your eyes on mine, Sahib ! Look 
elsewhere and you are dead before you have 
looked ! " 

He heard the words reverberating through 
him, endlessly re-echoing in chambers of his 
soul magically open to them. He felt himself 
fixed, immobile, in a strange paralysis of the 
faculties. The terrible eyes looked into his 
that he could not close — he felt, as it were, 
waves of immeasurable strange force flowing 
from them, rolling over him, submerging him. 
And yet* still he looked into the eyes of the 
fakir, his own eyes an open port to their 

A subtle, pervading odour ascended his 
nostrils, filled his lungs, mounted to his head* 
His brain grew dizzy with it. And still the 
compelling eyes held him, prevented him from 
turning his own eyes to the source of the 
odour. He lost the sense of his environment, 
was oblivious to the awed tribesmen staring 
silently at the pair in the blaze of light. He 
saw nothing but the eyes — lost consciousness 
of his own body. He stared — and lost con- 
sciousness even of the eyes at which he stared. 

There was vacuity, oblivion, an annihila- 
tion of time — and then out of that vacuity a 
voice commenced to speak. He heard it with 
a shock of the nerves — it crashed through 
darkness with a mighty power. He seemed 
suspended like a lost spirit in everlasting 
night, fumbling around the vague yet massive 
foundations of the world — indefinitely remote 
from all that he had ever known. He could 
not detach himself from those foundations. 
They quivered under the booming voice, 
.communicated an unpleasant thrill to the 
core of him. An awful unimaginable disaster 
seemed to envelop him. The tiny germ of 
consciousness that was still his fought for 
extension, strove to see. All was blackness — 
blackness. And still the voice went on relent- 
lessly, driving through darkness, like a plough- 
share thrust forward by the firm grip of a 
mighty and inexorable hand. Immeasurable 
results seemed dependent on its progress. He 
listened to it — and as he focused himself on 
the listening, a dim perception of his environ- 
ment came to him. He was vaguely con- 
scious of a sea of faces, upturned, listening — 
as he himself listened. Those faces — they 



were in some relation to 
him, there was a link be- 
tween them and him— he 
could not determine it. 
He listened. The words 
rang like sounding brass, 
the vowels roaring! y 
sonorous, the consonants 
clashing. He concentrated 
himself on their meaning 
— penetrated to it suddenly 
as through veils smitten 

" Lies and again lies, O 
children of the Prophet ! 
A mockery of lies I The 
Sultan Willem is a servant 
of Shaitan who feigneth 
religion that he may lure 
true believers to their dam- 
nation while they unwittingly 
serve the Evil One / " His 
perception leaped up, claw- 
ing at danger, and then 
was dragged down again , 
engulfed. He felt himself 
like a man drowning in 
black waters at night — 
down — down — and then, 
fighting obscurely, he shot 
up again, heard the inexor- 
able voice continue ng : 
" This magic you have looked 
upon is a false magic —ike 
mttpic of unbelievers in league with Eblisf 1 
He heard the re-echoing denunciation in a 
spasm of full consciousness— was suddenly 
cognizant of the sea of faces, of fierce passions 
exhaling from it — was completely aware of 
the menace of utter ruin, A great revulsion 
surged in him. This must be stopped — 
stopped f The necessity for instant protest 
was an anguish in him. All of himself that 
he could summon from the darkness as his 
own shrieked the negative, and yet he did 
not utter a sound — knew that he did not. 
"Climb up into thai box some of you, and ye 
shall find no ma^ic but a Frank there I Jl He 
strained with all his soul towards the faculty 
of speech — felt his powers vanquishing the 
spell of dumbness— on the verge of utterance 
shaped his words of denial, " Jo I have ' / 
not spoken the truth ? Yea, I cannot speak 
other than the truth, for I am the runawoy ser- 
vant of Mohammed Din, and his sanctity hath 
broken the compact hetiveen me and the Evil 
One ! " Tn staggering horror he realized — 
the voice was his own ! 

He stood fixed, incapable ^J^pY ) k ement ? 



?"6u6^te w 

and saw — like a man that has dreamed and 
cannot yet distinguish dream from reality — 
the mob of tribesmen surging obscurely in the 
long stone room^ saw the blinding white eye 
of the lantern still shining steadfastly upon 
him— saw it waver, swing from side to side, 
and then, with one last blinding flash, dis- 
appear. In the utter darkness he heard 
shouts and shrieks and fierce derisive laughter. 
He heard crash upon crash as heavy objects 
were ftung from a height at the other end of 
the room. He heard a piercing yell, im 
agonized, appealing utterance of his own name. 
For a brief second it shocked him into com- 
plete consciousness— h is operator/ Then* ere 
he could break his invisible bonds, he felt a 
pair of cool hands pressed tightly against his 
brow j over his eyes, and he relapsed totally— 
with a last little gasp— into nothingness, 

He awoke again to see the tribesmen 
surging round him. fiercely shouting. The 
room re-echoed with reiterated cries of 
" Sharm ! Sharm I " * and a howl that was so 

* Sharm t >. stain ot dishonour that can only he vh\\ terare in 
b|ood. ThWWleH jflial l¥fi Bflder I ies the blood *feu<i 




even yet- 

unmistakably for blood 

that it chilled him to 

the heart- The room was 

lighter now — the rags 

had been pulled down 

from the high loopholes 

in the walh He saw 

Muhammed Din standing before him, fending 

off his adversaries. He was still incapable 

oluntary movement, A great faintness 

t over him. He reeled back ; found 

himself supported by the angle of the wall. 

He had been thrust back there all unconscious 

of the movement. 

Dazed and sick, he heard Muhammed Din 

M O children of the Hills, Allah and His 
holy Prophet sent me to you to rescue you 
from the snare of the Evil One. On me is laid 
the charge of vengeance upon this wretch, 
mho was my slave ere he became the pos- 
sessed of Shaitan. But this much of ven- 
geance will I grant ye, for this much ]s just. 
He made a mock of you. Make ye a mock of 
him, Let him be drivenr out of the village, 
face tailwards upon an ass. The women and 
children shall cry derision upon the runaway 
sen-ant who came to deceive you as a saint 

ri the false magic of Shaitan ! " 
armg speechlessly before him, the exposed 
latan heard the howls of approval o£ the 
. His faintly-working intellect wondered 
the mullah was taking this deception- 

creatures doth 


perhaps even yet — — 
He saw M u h a m m e d 
Din hold up a large bag 
of money* He recognized 
it with a last hopeless- 

"This g o 1 d ' T — 
Muhammed Din emptied 
some of it upon his 
hand — " this gold hath 
my servant surely re- 
ceived from Shaitan. It 
is accursed unless some 
holy man receive it. 
Therefore to you, 
Mullah, do I give it." 

The mullah snatched at 

" Great is Allah and 
for the meanest of His 
He provide ! 3> he said* 
* Thou speakest truth, holy fakir. Praise 
be to Allah that I am here to protect the 
faithful from the accursed magic of this gold. 
As to this wretch ; accursed of Allah, let him 
be driven quickly forth as thou sayest, O 
holy one ! It is meet that thy vengeance 
should not have to linger." 

There was a rush at the fallen magician. 
He swooned into their arms. 

Some little time later^ when the last stone 
had been flung and the last epithet of mocking 
insult had ceased to echo from the hills, 
Strhultz Sahib, his hands bound behind his 
back, his feet tied under the belly of his mount, 
raised his eyes from the ass's tail that he 
had been contemplating, 

* Thou hust won, O Muhammed Din— but 
even yet I do not understand* What hap- 
pened ? " 

The fakir smiled, 

- Thou hast thy magics, Schultz Sahib — 
what think est thou of the magic of Muhammed 
Din ? Hurry, Willem, hurry ! " he cried, 
as his stick descended with a resounding 
thwack upon the hindquarters of the ass. 
" Thou art laggard in thy invasion of the 
territories of the English ! " 

The Political Officer listened to the story, 
and* embracing hypnotism in the studies of 
his exile, made a note of it. 

Original from 




AGE 17. 

/'Autu. 6..- 1 


0\V did I hegm my stage- work, I hare 
often been asked. Well, 1 did not, 
1 as do many actresses, have a desire 
trom earliest childhood to enter the 
theatrical profession, I went on the 
stage because I wanted to i>e near my sister Maxine, 
M y first night on the stage was a keen joy and 
excitement to me. I felt no nervousness, and fox 
quite a little time afterwards tound that 
the excitement of opening with a new 
play banished fear from me. Oddly 
enough, I was attacked with ner- 
vousness on second nights, that 
was later, when 1 nad had time 
to realize my responsibilities. 

r Ihe play I made my first 
appearance In was "A 
Woman of No Importance." 
I played Lady Stutfiold and 
my sister Mrs, A 11 en by. We 
were in Rose Coghlun's reperto: 
company, and the next night hod 
to act in " Diplomacy/' in which I 
was Mion, the little French maid. 
This was in the early autumn of 1S9+. 
I have said I was not nervous 
on first nights j but I forgot. I was 
this time, for I found it difficult to * 
walk across the stage— as I had to 
do before speaking my opening lines— and was 
unaccustomed to wearing a train and low-rut 
bodice. I had never worn evening-dress before. 
Looking back, I recall one or two amusing 
contretemps which marked my venture into 
drama. In " Diplomacy" liaron Stein, who was 
also the .stage- manager, went on the sta^e before 
the curtain ascended to see that all was in 
order, and left his hat on the table of the 
room where he had to pay a call. The 
curtain went up. I made my entrance, fc" 
^ mm , was my first night of u Diplomacy" and 
second on the stage t so vou mav imagine my 
reclin^riaiBki llf KfeHB-d a loud whisper itom 

AOV 1 ukms- 
K()IiEkTSON h S 




the wings from the stage-manager : " Miss 
Elliott, my hat. Please give rue my hat ! n 
I did not know what to do at first , but as the 
hoarse whispers went on thought out a way 
of restoring the hat to its owner, I looked 
at it as it lay on the table 5 then round the 
room, At the back was a window, showing 
the roofs of Paris. That was the only way, 
I decided, and forthwith, continuing my 
dialogue — which, of course , had nothing to 
do with the hat — walked to the window, 
opened it, and planted the hat, apparently, 
ana roof. 

It was on this evening I experienced 
my first touch of stage- fright. I went 
off early, too early after my little speech , 
and waited in the wings without a notion 
as to when I should 
go on again. My M 
memory went 
completely, I 
heard my name 
catted several 
times, and even- 
tually made up my 
mind it was time 
for me. Someone 
said, " Miss Elliott, 
this is your en- 
trance," pointing 
to a door, but I 
thought it was not, 

and entered from another point, to find 
the two people on the stage had their 
hacks to me, I went off again. Later 
in the evening, at the end of the act, 
my sister Maxine called me and scolded 
me for having left her without a shoe, 
which I ought to have brought in with 
me. They had grown tired of asking for 
me, and she had to manage as best she 
could with a slipperless foot. 

How I entered my husband's company 
is rather a strange story. He was in 
Italy at the time, resting after an illness* 
His brother engaged the people for the 
company, but not being able to make 
up his mind about the leading woman, 
sent Sir Johnston a list of prospective 
te ng ladies. My husband had not met 
or seen me play, but one moming 
ent off a telegram to his brother : 
gage Miss Gertrude Elliott as leading 
. I was engaged, and whim he 
rned from Italy we went to the 
inces in his repertory. The first 
I placed with him was Ophelia, 
working under such a chief helped 
~s* of responsibility as to stage 

Phut* bv lAmiit fijutraU 



u • 




in •• il&PjaaJ tap- 




work to grow. This has increased with years, 
and every part finds one more anxious to do 
the best possible and more conscious of the 
difficulties to be encountered. 

Sir Johnston's tour began in September, 
and in December he asked me to become his 
wife. You know that I accepted. It was a 
great surprise to me, l>ecai:se in the dramatic 
as in all the artisric professions one is in* lined 
to place those who are masters of their art 
on a pedestal. One feels like a student in 
a matslro's atelier. 

In January, 1902, at the Lyric Theatre was 
produced " Mice and Men," and I remember 
on one occasion my husband, in the* character 
of Mark Embury, instead of saying " Mrs. 
Deborah, this is my ward," said, " Mrs. 
Deborah, this is my wife." We had not long 
been married, and the house were immensely 
amused at the slip of the tongue. Since 
" Mice and Men," I have appeared with mv 
husband in " The Light that Failed," " Catsar 
and Cleopatra," " The Merchant of Venice," 
etc., etc. 

School days are happy days for English 
and American children. German boys and 
girls, on the other hatid, have a dull time and 
such a long grind at books that I don't wonder 
they are cruel when they grow up* It is 
difficult to be cruel when you are happy. 

A little school goes a long way, to my way 
of thinking. The most interesting people in 
the world are those who have been educated 
by life. Long hours of study and close appli- 
cation to books prevent the development of 
children. Their individuality is " cribbed, 
cabined, and confined " in this way — I think. 

Such was not my opinion, however, as a 
small girl. Personally, I loved study, and 
crammed like mad always, and was so terribly 
" good " that when a general reproof was 
directed to the class I remember the tears 
rolling down my face — to the amused astonish- 
ment of the teacher. 

At this time I was very shy. My father 
was proud of my whistling — an unusual 
accomplishment for a girl then — and used to 
beg me to whistle for friends, and offer me 
littk bribes of sweets and the like. I loved 
to whistle, but can only remember being 
persuaded to do so " before people " on one 
occasion. Then I said I couldn't unless I 
turned my back, so I stood in the corner for 
my solo. This incident was used by Mrs. 
Ryley in " Mice and Men." Mark Embury, 
you may remember, asks Peggy to sing, and 
she replies : " I'll sing if my back is turned." 

My little songs which I have sung all my 
life I have only given in public during the 

Diailizeo bv viOOvli 

last year, and I feel more nervous in singing 
them than in acting. 

My sister Maxine, who is six years older 
than I, used to always lead in everything— 
that is perhaps why I was so quiet. I was 
always known as " the little sister." Where 
Maxine went I followed, and I became so 
used to taking her lead that after I was 
married my husband had quite a little diffi- 
culty in getting me to enter rooms first. 

I always, looked very young for my age. 
Maxine, on the other hand, seemed grown-up 
at seventeen. We were very amused one 
day, on going into a shop together, to hear 
the assistant say to Maxine, " Madam, is 
this your 1'ttle girl ? " " No," sa d my 
s'ster, who has a keen sense of fun, "she 
is my grandchild." Maxine did, in tact, 
have little motherly airs when she fussed 
around me settling what I should wear, the 
colour of a frock or shape of a hat. My 
mother having died while I was young, she was 
" in charge," and fulfilled her responsibility 
most conscientiously. So much so, in fact, 
that I never bought any clothes, or settled 
any similar little personal matters for myself, 
until I married. Even now if Maxine chose 
clothes for me they would be exactly right, 
she always knew" what was suitable and 
becoming to me. 

We used to have great fun over my early 
stage appearances. I remember a part in 
which I had to look like a doll, and the excite- 
ment of getting the frock and making-up for 
the part. I have a photograph of myself in 
the dress, and look rather like the heroine 
of " La. Poup6e." Another photograph taken 
at the same time in the trained evening gowns 
that were then worn makes me look years 
older. A stranger confronted with both 
pictures would find it difficult to believe that 
they were taken at the same time. 

When I first played Ophelia I wore a black 
gown in the mad scene. My husband designed 
the dress for me in which I appeared when he 
gave " Hamlet " in New York. This black 
gown gave me an agonized evening once. 
After the first act of " Hamlet " I went up- 
stairs to my dressing-room to change, and 
instead of getting into another light gown, 
by some unhappy trick of the memory 
thought I had to dress for the " mad scene," 
and put on the black one. Presently I was 
" called." I said I was^not due " on " yet, 
but they insisted, and my black gown was 
positively ripped off. In anyother gown than 
black I could have gone on, but to wear black 
earHer would have robbed the mad scene of 
part of its effect. The light one put on, there 





was Iri?h, my mother American:, I was bom 
in Rockland, Maine, U.S.A. 

My sister Maxine preceded me on the stage. 
She gave me my first rehearsal, and coached 
rue in my " Diplomacy 3? part, Maxine worked 
hard in telling me exactly how the part 
should be played ; in fact ? it was two o'clock 
a. tn. before we got to bed. The next 
night 1 wefft on for the part, as I 
have already told, but believe my 
initial performance was an exact 
imitation of my sister's, as 
^nven in my bedroom over- 
night ! 

My father, I remember, 

was very much amused 

at the notion <jt my 

going on the stage. 

He wondered if I 

should ever make 

V myself heard across 

the footlights, as I 

was so shy that 

I ti e v e r spoke 

Photo, ov Lizzie Casvall Smith, 

was not time to fasten it, but my hair fell down 
the back j and I rushed on the stage only just in 
time as Hamlet was saying very deliberately — 
wandering at my non-appearance— lf Here's metal 
more attractive," I got through, but the shock 
and worry of it affected my voice. I could only 
speak in a tiny^ whispering voice all the evening. 
My sister j who was Sailing for America the next 
day, and had come a day's journey to see me as 
f^elia, couldm t hear what I was saying ! 

was dreadful. I hope I shall never have such 
; experience again. 

his reminds me that my husband has designed 
od many r stage dresses. When Mary Anderson 
eared as Rosalind her dress was of my hus- 
d's designing, and ever since all Rosalinda 
e adopted this fashion, which is a very 
3mirig otte* 

ty people, by the way, were not connected 
k *he stage, As to my nationality, my father 

OrigirrSlft?Jffi LIA * 



above a whisper in a room ! Our two eldest 
little girls are ahead of me in this respect. 
Already they show a liking for the stage, and 
look forward to visits to the theatre, 'Hie 
eldest, Blossom, is most like her father, and 
shows a talent for painting. The second one, 
Jean, we call " the face-maker " ; she pulls 
such faces and mimics people. All of wh ; ch 
is interesting (?), but not important. 

The dramatic profession is extraordinarily 
interesting, and I, in common with most 
actors, love it. People often wonder at the 
feats of memory an actor performs. This 
subject has always had a fascination for me. 
Some people find studying their parts and 
"committing them to memory quite easy. 
Others have, to " stodge M at their work. I 
like to study at rehearsal — that is, to let the 
words come with the action, not peg away at 
them at home. 

In " Mice and Men," after playing for 
several months, I began to feel nervous lest 
I should " dry up " (as players call it when 
the words suddenly go). One night I looked 
toward the prompt-corner, but there was not a 
sign of the prompter, upon which came a dead 
pause. To my surprise and relief the word came 
almost immediately from somewhere at the 
ba< k of the stage. Shiel Barry, a boy then, 
was the prompter. He became an interesting 
actor, and when war broke out volunteered; 

and was killed in acticn. Shiel Barry had a 
genius for prompting. He knew every word 
of the play, and when a pause came, no 
matter who was speaking, he supplied the right 
word, and no one would hew but the actor. 
Prompting is like accompanying, it seems a 
gift, and is quite separate from good acting. 

In the old days the theatre must have been 
much more fun to the players than it is now, 
though it is pleasant enough for most of us, 
and a greater test of one's powers, for then 
many rehearsals were not usual, and the 
actors became very clever and quick in 
adjusting themselves promptly to all sorts 
of unforeseen conditions and " gagging." 

Some of the notions one cherishes as a 
beginner are curious. I thought at one time 
to act an intense, melancholy part one ought 
to eat very little and get oneself into the state 
of mind and body that had to be depicted 
Tins is, of course, a gra\ e mistake. To do his 
best an actor must be in good health, so that 
he has the necessary grip and control. And 1 
never must he allow hi* emotion to dominate 1 
lr'm ; at least, that is how it seems to me. ! 
The intelligence should watch all the time 
and intuition tell exactly when the effect is 
gained and when the note must be changed. 
If one gets out of hand the audience does too. 
But I am afraid I am lecturing. It is evidently 
time for me to ?>top ! 


Tte Beginning of 

Pbizks to the value of twelve guineas are offered for the 
solution of the six acrostics of the series now beginning. 

Noted lawyer let us see. 
Born in Seventeen Twenty-threr ; 
Dusky bit of rock in he. 
Of his " Commentaries M free. 

1. Lawyer now of different kind. 
Him in Bevis Marks we find. 

2. Since of all this finis is, 

J jet the cobbler stick to his. 

3. Where John Bull " I love " would say. 
This was once the Roman way. 

4. This, on Royal head, to-day 
More than five bob co*t. I'd say. 

5. Heaven frustrate his tricks, we pray. 
Though we call him Jack in play. 


Well beaten and beneath our feet. 
That both should be is very meet. 

1. When you're run down, pulls you together. 

2. Oft stolen during rainy weather. 

3. Has dined not wisely, but too well. 

4. Supplies the enemy with shell. 

5. The people who enjoy the vote. 

6. Name of a kind of «ai ling-boat, KINO COLE. 

Answers to Acrostics 31 and 32 should He addressed 
to the Acrostic Editor, The Strand Magazine, Sovth- 

a New Series* 

ampton Street, Strand, london, JT.0.2. and must arrive net 
later than by the first poet on August Hth. 

The answer to each acrostic must be on a separate piece 
of jwpfr, and each rnwi be signed with the soiree* s pseudonym* 

Two answers may be sent to any or erery light. 

Answer to No. 30. 


W ol 



A 1 bi re 



T inea 



E d m o n t o 



R u pai ya 



M o ren 



A s ha n t 



N u 


Notes.— Light 1. Wolf, flow. 2. The star, Beta Oygni 
in the mouth of the Swan, is very near the constellation 
Vulpecula cum Ansere. 3. Harriet Martincau ; half of 
martin. 4. Ten mile'* from Ware. Cowper, The Direrting 
History of John Gilpin. 5. Kipling, Departmental DittieK 
6. It is uncertain whether " sierra " means ** a saw M ; 
Sierra Morena, and Sierra Nevada ; Nevada, one of the 
United States. 7. Ash, anti ; tobacco ash ; Kin* Coffee. 
8. He and Nun. letters in both the Hebrew and Arabic 

For the fourth light of No. 27. " Campaigni(ng) * is 
accepted as a good answer. 

The Acrostic Editor would be glad if all the " Pat* " 
and " Bobs " would adopt other pseudonyms : so many 
solvers have chosen these names that there is a possibility 
of confusion, Salves Tcircrally should not change their 
pseudonyms uniess requested to do 




Illustrated ty Alfred Leete. 

OMETIMES of a morning, as 
I've sat in bed sucking down 
the early cup of tea and watched 
my man Jeeves flitting about 
the room and putting out the 
raiment for the day, I've 
wondered what the deuce I 
should do if the fellow ever 
took it into his head to leave me. It's not so 
bad now I'm in New York, but in London the 
anxiety was frightful. There used to be all 
sorts of attempts on the part of low blighters 
to sneak him away from mc. Young Reggie 
Foljambe to my certain knowledge oftered him 
double what I was giving him, and Alistair 
Bingham- Reeves, who's got a valet who had 
been known to press his trousers sideways, used 
to look at him, when he came to see me, with a 
kind of glittering, hungry eye which disturbed 
me deucedly. Bally pirates ! 

The thing, you see, is that Jeeves is so dashed 
competent. You can spot it even in the way he 
shoves studs into a shirt. 

I rely on him absolutely in every crisis, and 
he never lets me down. And, what's more, he 
can always be counted on to extend himself 
on behalf of any pal of mine who happens to be 
to all appearances knee-deep in the bouillon. 
Take the rather rummy case, for instance r of dear 
old Bicky and Ids uncle, the hard-boiled egg. 

It happened after 1 had been in America for 
a feu* months. I got back to the flat latish one 
night, and when Jeeves brought me the final 
drink he said : — 

" Mr. Bickersteth called to see you this evening, 
sir, while vou were out." 

" Oh ? " I said. 

" Twice, sir. He appeared a trifle agitated." 

" What, pipped ? " 

" He gave that impression, sir." 

I sipped the whisky. I was sorry if Bicky 
was in trouble, but, as a matter of fact, I was 
rather glad to have something 1 could discuss 
freely with Jeeves just then, because things had 
been a bit strained between us for some time, 
and it had been rather difficult to hit on any- 
thing to talk about that wasn't apt to take a 
personal turn. You see, I had decided — rightly 
or wrongly — to grow a moustache, and this had 
cut Jeeves to the quick. He couldn't stick the 
thing at any price, and 1 had been living ever 
since in an atmosphere . of bally disapproval 
till I was getting jolly well fed up with it. What 

Vol. Uv.-S. 

I mean is, while there's no doubt that in certain 
matters of dress Jeeves' judgment is absolutely 
sound and should be followed, it seemed to me 
that it was getting a bit too thick if he was going 
to edit my face as well as my costume. No one 
can call me an unreasonable chappie, and many's 
the time- I've given in like a lamb when Jeeves 
has voted against one of my pet suits or ties ; 
but when it comes to a valet's staking out a 
claim on your upper lip you've simply got to 
have a bit of the good old bulldog pluck and defy 
the blighter. 

" He said that he would call again later, sir." 

" Something must be up, Jeeves." 

"Yes, sir." 

I gave the moustache a thoughtful twirl. It 
seemed to hurt Jeeves a good deal, so I chucked 

" I see by the paper, sir, that Mr. Bickersteth's 
uncle is arriving on the Carmanlic." 

" Yes ? " 

" His Grace the Duke of Chiswick, sir." 

This was news to me, that Bicky 's uncle was 
a duke. Rum, how little one knows about one's 
pals ! I had met Bicky for the first time at a 
species of beano or jamboree down in Washington 
Square, not long after my arrival in New York. I 
suppose I was a bit homesick at the time, and 
I rather took to Bicky when I found that he was 
an Englishman and had, in fact, been up at 
Oxford with me.* Besides, he was a frightful 
chump, so we naturally drifted together ; and 
while we were taking a quiet snort in a corner 
that wasn't all cluttered up with artists and 
sculptors and what not, he furthermore endeared 
himself to me by a most extraordinarily gifted 
imitation of a bull-terrier chasing a cat up a 
tree. But, though we had subsequently become 
extremely pally, all I really knew about him 
was that he was generally hard up, and had an 
uncle who relieved the strain a bit from time to 
time by sending him monthly remittances. 

" If the Duke of Chiswick is his uncle," I said, 
" why hasn't he a title ? Why isn't he Lord 
What-Not ? " 

" Mr. Bickersteth is the son of his grace's late 
sister, sir, who married Captain Rollo Bickersteth 
of the Coldstream Guards." 

Jeeves knows everything. 

" Is Mr. Bickersteth's father dead too ? " 

" Yes, sir." 

;:^any Wnj ^f' fn 




I began to understand why poor old Bicky 
Tjras always more or less on the rocks. To the 
casual and irreflective observer, if you know 
what 1 mean, it may sound a pretty good wheeze 
having a duke for an uncle, but the trouble about 
old Chiswick was that, though an extremely 
wealthy old buster, owning half London and 
about five counties up 
north, he was notoriously 
the most prudent spender 
in England. He was 
what American chappies 
would call a hard-boiled 
egg. If Bicky 's people 
hadn't left him anything 
and he depended on what 
he could prise out of the 
old duke, he was in a 
pretty bad way. ISot 
that that explained why 
he was hunting me like 
this,, because he was a 
chap who never borrowed 
money* He said he 
wanted to keep his pals, 
so never bit anyone's ear 
on principle. 

At this juncture the 
door-be 1L rang. Jeeves 
floated out to answer it, 

"Yes, sir* Mr. 
Woostcr has j u s t 
returned/* I heard him 
say. And Bicky came 
trickling in, looking 
pretty sorry for himself. 

if Halloa, Bicky! " 1 
said* " Jeeves told mc 
you had been trying to 
get me* Jeeves, bring 
another glass, -and let 
the revels commence, 
What's the trouble, 
Bicky ? " 

" fm in a hole, Bertie* 
I want your advice." 

44 Say on, old lad 3 " 

" My uncle's turning up to-morrow 

*' So Jeeves told me/' 

"The Duke of Chiswick, you know/' 

,f So Jeeves told me/' 

Bicky seemed a bit surprised. 

" Jeeves seema to know everything." 

" Kather rummily, that's exactly what I was 
thinking just now myself/' 

" Well, I wish/' said Bicky, gloomily, " that 
he knew a way to get me out of the hole I'm in/' 

Jeeves shimmered in with the glass, and stuck 
it competently on the table. 

** Mr. Biekersteth is in a bit of a hole, Jeeves," 
I said, " and wants you to rally round/* 

" Very good, sir/* 

Bicky looked a bit doubtlul. 

" Well, of course, you know, Bertie, this thing 
is by way of being a bit private and all that." 

" I shouldn't worry about that, old top. 1 bet 
Jeeves knows all about it already, Don't you* 
Jeeves ? " 





by L^OOgle 

" Yes, sir/' 

44 Eh ? " Sidd Bicky, rattled. 
44 I am open to correction, sir, but is not your 
dilemma due to the fact that you are at a loss 
to explain to his grace why you are in New York 
instead of in Colorado ? " 

Bicky rocked like a jelly in a high wind, 

" How the deuce do 
you know anything 
al>out it ? " 

" I chanced to meet 
his grace's by tier before 
we left England. He 
informed me that he 
happened to overhear his 
grace speaking to you 
on the matter, sir, as he 
passed the library -door." 
Bicky gave a hollow 
sort of laugh. 

" Well, as everybody 
seems to know all about 
it; there's no need to try 
to keep it dark. lhe 
old boy turfed me out, 
Bertio, because lie said 
I w;is a brainless nin- 
compoop. The idea was 
that he would ^ive me a 
remittance on condition 
that I dashed out to some 
blighted locality ot the 
name of Colorado and 
learned farming or ranch- 
ing, or whatever they rail 
it, at some batly ranch 
or farm or whatever it's 
called. I didn't fancy 
the idea a bit, I should 
have had to ride horses 
and pursue .ows, and so 
forth. I hate horses. 
They bite at you. I was 
all against the scheme. 
At the same time, don't 
you know, 1 had to ha vie 
that remittance/' 
" I get yon absolutely, dear boy." 
" Well, when I got to New York it looked a 
decent sort of place to me, so I thought it would 
be a pretty sound notion to stop here. So I 
cabled to my uncle telling him that I had dropped 
into a good business wheeze in the city and 
wanted to chuck the ranch idea- He wrote back- 
that it was all right, and here I've been ever 
since. He thinks I'm doing well at something 
or other over here. I never dreamed, don't you 
know ( \h r Ai he would ever come out here. What 
on earth am I to do ? " 

M Jeeves, M 1 said, " what on earth is Mr, 
Biekersteth to do ? " 

" You see," said Bicky, 4i I had a wireless 
from him to say that he w;is coming to stay with 
me — to save hotel bills, I suppose. I've always 
given him the impression that I was living in 
pretty good style. 1 cant have him to stay at 
my board ing-hous^." 

eeves ? " I said. 

" Thought of anything. Jee\ 




" To what extent, sir, if the question is not 
a delicate one, are you prepared to assist Mr. 
Bickersteth ? " 

" I'll do anything I can for you, of course, 
Bicky, old man." 

" Then, if I might make the suggestion, sir, 
you might lend Mr. Bickersteth " 

"No, by Jove!" said Bicky, firmly. "I 
never have touched you, Bertie, and I'm not 
going to start now. I may be a chump, 
but it's my boast that I don't owe a penny 
to a single- soul — not counting tradesmen, of 

" I was about to suggest, sir, that you might 
lend Mr. Bickersteth this flat. Mr. Bickersteth 
could give his grace the impression that he was 
the owner of it. With your permission I could 
convey the notion that I was in Mr. Bickersteth 's 
employment and not in yours. You would be 
residing here temporarily as Mr. Bickersteth 's 
guest. His grace would occupy the second 
spare bedroom. I fancy that you would find 
this answer satisfactorily, sir." 

Bicky had stopped rocking himself and was 
staring at Jeeves in an awed sort of way. 

" I would advocate the dispatching of a wire- 
less message to his grace on board the vessel, 
notifying him of the change of address. Mr. 
Bickersteth could meet his grace at the dock 
and proceed directly here. Will that meet the. 
situation, sir ? " 

" Absolutely." 

" Thank you, sir." 

Ricky followed him with his eye till the door 

" How does he do it, Bertie ? " he said. n I'll 
tell you what I think it is. I believe it's some- 
thing to do with the shape of his head. Have 
you ever noticed his head, Bertie, old man ? It 
sort of sticks out at the back ! " 

I hopped out of bed pretty early next morning, 
so as to be among those present when the old 
boy should arrive. I knew from experience that 
these ocean liners fetch up at the dock at a 
deucedly ungodly hour. It wasn't much after 
nine by the time I'd dressed and had my morning 
tea and was leaning out of the window, watching 
the street for Bicky and his uncle. It was one 
of those jolly, peaceful mornings that make a 
chappie wish he'd got a soul or something, and 
I was just brooding on life in general when I 
became aware of the dickens of a spat in progress 
down below. A taxi had driven up, and an old 
boy in a top hat had got out and was kicking 
no a frightful row about the fare. As far as I 
c Id make out, he was trying to get the cab 
ci ppie to switch from New York to London 
p :es. and the cab chappie had apparently never 
h ird of London before, and didn't seem to 
tl nk a lot of it now. The old boy said that in 
I adon the trip would have set him back eight - 
p ice ; and the cabby said he should worry. 
1 tiled to Jeeves. 

The duke has arrived, Jeeves." 

Yes, sir ? " 

That'll be him at the door now." 

ives made a long arm and opened the front 

door, and the old boy crawled in, looking licked 
to a splinter. 

" How do you do, sir ? " I said, bustling up 
and being the ray of sunshine. " Your nephew 
went down to the dock to meet you, but you 
must have missed him. My name's Wooster, 
don't you know. Great pal of Bicky 's, and all 
that sort of thing. I'm staying with him, you 
know. Would you like a cup of tea ? Jeeves, 
bring a cup of tea." 

Old Chiswick had sunk into an armchair and 
was looking about the room. 

" Does this luxurious flat belong to my nephew 
Francis ? " 

" Absolutely." 

" It must be terribly expensive." 

" Pretty well, of course. Everything costs a 
lot over here, you know." 

He moaned. Jeeves filtered in with the tea. 
Old Chiswick took a stab at it to restore his 
tissues, and nodded. 

" A terrible country, Mr. Wooster I A terrible 
country ! Nearly eight shillings for a short cab- 
drive ! Iniquitous ! " He took another look 
round the room. It seemed to fascinate him. 
" Have you any idea how much my nephew 
pays for this flat, Mr. Wooster ? " 

" About two hundred dollars a month, I 

" What I Forty pounds a month 1 " 

I began to see that, unless I made the thing 
a bit more plausible, the scheme might turn out 
a frost. I could guess what the old boy was 
thinking. He was trying to square all this 
prosperity with what he knew of poor old Bicky. 
And one had to admit that it took a lot of squar- 
ing, for dear old Bicky, though a stout fellow 
and absolutely unrivalled as an imitator of bull- 
terriers and cats, was in many ways one of the 
most pronounced fatheads that ever pulled on a 
suit of gents' underwear. 

" I suppose it seems rummy to you," I said, 
" but the fact is New York often bucks chappies 
up and makes them show a flash of speed that 
you wouldn't have imagined them capable of. 
It sort of develops them. Something in the air, 
don't you know. I imagine that Bicky in the 
past, when you knew him, may have been some- 
thing of a chump, but it's quite different now. 
Devilish efficient sort of chappie, and looked on 
in commercial circles as quite the nib ! " 

" I am amazed ! What is the nature of my 
nephew's business, Mr. Wooster ? " 

" Oh, just business, don't you know. The 
same sort of thing Carnegie and Rockefeller and 
all these coves do, you /know." I slid for the 
door. " Awfully sorry to leave you, but I've 
got to meet some of the lads elsewhere." 

Coming out of the lift I met Bicky bustling in 
from the street. 

" Halloa, Bertie ! I missed him. Has he 
turned up ? ' 

" He's upstairs now, having some tea." 

" What does he think of it all ? " 

" He's absolutely rattled." 

" Kipping ! I'll .be . toddling up, then. 
Toodle-oo, Bertie, old man. See you later." 

" Pip-Wiir'ffiHsHV^MKHIGAN 



He trotted off, lull ol merriment and good 
cheer, and I went oil to the club to sit in the 
window and watch the traffic coming up one way 
and going down the other. 

It was latish in the evening when I looked in 
at the Hat to dress for dinner. 

" Where's everybody, Jeeves ? " I said, finding 
ao little feet pattering about the place, HH Gone 
out? " 

44 His grace desired to sec some of the sights 
of the city, sin Mr. Bickersteth is acting as his 
escort. I fancy their immediate objective was 
Grant's Tomb/' 

M I suppose Mr* Bickersteth is a bit braced at 
the way things are going —what ? " 

£f Sir t " 

** I say, I take it that Mr* Bickersteth is 
tolerably full of beans." 

" Not altogether, sir." 

" What's his trouble now ? " 

" The scheme which I took the liberty of 
suggesting to Mr. Bickersteth and yourself has, 
unfortunately, not answered entirely satisfac- 
torily, sir." 

M Surely the duke believes that Mr. Bicker- 
steth is doing well in business, and all that sort 
of thing ? H 

" Exactly, sir. With the result that he has 
decided to cancel Mr, Bickersteth/s monthly 
allowance, on the ground that, as Mr. 
Bickersteth is doing so well on his own 
account, he no longer requires pecuniary 
assistance/ 1 

" Great Scot, Jeeves ! This is awful ! " 

11 Somewhat disturbing, sir." 

" I never expected anything like this 

"I confess I 
scarcely anticipated 
the contingency 
myself, sir." 

"I suppose it 
bowled the poor 
blighter over abso- 
lutely ? " 

" Mr. Bickersteth 
appeared somewhat 
taken aback, sir/' 

My heart bled for 

" We must do 
something, Jeeves." 

" Yes, sir/' 

" Can you think 
of anything ? " 

* 4 Not at the mo- 
ment, sir/ 1 

** There must be 
some tiling we can 

" It was a maxim of one of my former 
employers, sir— as I believe I mentioned to you 
once before— the present Lord Bridgnorth, that 
there is always a way + 1 remember his lordship 
using the expression on the occasion— he was 
then a business gentleman and had not yet 
received his title— when a patent hair-restorer 
which he chanced to be promoting faded to 

attract the public. He put it on the market 
under another name as a depilatory, and amassed 
a substantial fortune. I have generally found 
his lordship's aphorism based on sound founda- 
tions* No doubt we shall be able to discover 
some solution of Mr. Bickersteth s difhcuLtv, 

" Well T have a stab at it, Jeeves I " 
" I will spare no pains, sir " 
J went and dressed sadly. It will show yon 
pretty well how pipped I was when I tell yon 
that I as near as a toucher put on a white tie 
with a dinner-jacket. I sallied out for a bit of 
food more to pass the time than because I wanted 
it. It seemed brutal to be wading into the bill 
of fare with poor old Bicky headed for the bread- 
line . 

When I got back old Cb is wick had gone to bed, 
but Bicky was there, hunched up in an arm- 
chair, brooding pretty tensely, with a cigarette 
hanging out of the comer of his mouth and a 
more or less glassy stare in his eyes. lie had 
the aspect of uiv who had been soaked with 
what the newspaper chappies cad " some blunt 
instrument/ 1 

"This is a bit thick, old thing — what ! " I 

He picked up his glass and drained it feverishly; 

overlooking the fact that it hadn't anything in it. 

"I'm done, Bertie ! JJ he said. 

He had another 
go at the ^lass. 
It didn't seem to 
do him any good. 

"If only this had 
happened a week 
later, Bertie I 
next mont h ' s 
money was due to 
roll in on Saturday, 
I could have worked 
a wheeze I've been 
reading about in 
the magazine adver* 
tise ments ♦ 1 1 see ms 
that you can make 
a dashed amount of 
money if you can 
only collect a few 
dollars and stiirt a 
chic ken -farm. Jolly 
sound scheme, 
Bertie I Say you 
buy a hen— call it 
one hen for the 
sake of argument. 
It lays an eggev* 
day of the wp 
You sell the c 
seven f<*r twei 
Jive cents, Keep of hen costs nothing. Pr 
practically twenty-five cents on every seven e$ 
Or look at it tn another way : Suppose you h 
a dozen hens. Each of the hens has a do 
chickens. The chickens grow up and have rn 
chickens. Why, in no time you'd have 
place coveiQli^H^JdiflSpTtoi hens, all layings 




make a fortune. Jolly life, too, keeping hens ! " 
He had begun to get quite worked up at the 
thought of it, but he slopped back in his chair 
at this juncture with a good deal of gloom. 
" But, of course, it's no good," he said, "because 
I haven't the cash."^ 

" You've only to say the word, you know, 
Bicky, old top.", 

" Thanks awfully, Bertie, but I'm not going 
to sponge on you." 

That's always the way in this world. The 
chappies you'd like to lend money to won't let 
you, whereas the chappies you don't want to 
lend it to will do everything except actually 
stand you on your head and lift the specie out 
of your pockets. As a lad who has always rolled 
tolerably freely in the right stuff, I've had lots 
of experience of the second class. Many's the 
time, back in London, I've hurried along Picca- 
dilly and felt the hot breath of the toucher on 
the back of my neck and heard his sharp, excited 
yapping as he closed in on me. I've simply 
spent my life scattering largesse to blighters I 
didn't care a hang for ; yet here was I now, 
dripping doubloons and pieces of eight and longing 
to hand them over, and Bicky, poor fish, abso- 
lutely on his uppers, not taking any at any price. 

" Well, there's only one hope, then." . 

" What's that ? " 

" Jeeves." 

" Sir ? " 

There was Jeeves, standing behind me, full 
of zeal. In this matter of shimmering into 
rooms the chappie is rummy to a degree. You're 
sitting in the old arm-chair, thinking of this and 
that, and then suddenly you look up, and there 
he is. He moves from point to point with as 
little uproar as a jelly-fish. The thing startled 
poor old Bicky considerably. He rose from his 
seat like a rocketing pheasant. I'm used to 
Jeeves now, but often in the days when he first 
came to me I've bitten my tongue freely on 
finding him unexpectedly in my midst. 

" Did you call, sir ? " 

" Oh, there you are, Jeeves ! " 

" Precisely, sir." 

" Jeeves, Mr. Bickersteth is still up the pole. 
Any ideas ? " 

" Why, yes, sir. Since we had our recent 
conversation I fancy I have found what may 
prove a solution. I do not wish to appear to 
be taking a liberty, sir, but I think that we have 
overlooked his grace's potentialities as a source 
of revenue." 

Bicky laughed what I have sometimes seen 
described as a hollow, mocking laugh, a sort of 
b tter cackle from the back of the throat, rather 
li ? a gargle. 

' 1 do not allude, sir," explained Jeeves, " to 
t : possibility of inducing his grace to part with 
n _ney. I am taking the liberty of regarding his 
g ice in the light of an at present — if I may say 
* —useless property, which is capable of being 
d /eloped." 

Bicky looked at me in a helpless kind of way. 
I n bound to say I didn't get it myself. 

' Couldn't you make it a bit easier, Jeeves ? " 
. ' In a nutshell, sir, what I mean is this : His 

grace is, in a sense, a prominent personage. The 
inhabitants of this country, as no doubt you are 
aware, sir, are "peculiarly addicted to shaking 
hands with prominent personages. It occurred 
to me that Mr. Bickersteth or yourself might 
know of persons who would be willing to pay a 
small fee — let us say two dollars or three — for 
the privilege of an introduction, including hand- 
shake, to his grace." 

Bicky didn't seem to think much of it. 

" Do you mean to say that anyone would be 
mug enough to part with solid cash just to shake 
hands with my uncle ? " 

" 1 have an aunt, sir, who paid five shillings 
to a young fellow for bringing a moving-picture 
actor to tea at her house one Sunday. It gave 
her social standing among the neighbours." 

Bicky wavered. 

" If you think it could be done " 

"T feel convinced of it, sir." 

" What do you think, Bertie ?'" 

" I'm for it, old boy, absolutely. A very 
brainy wheeze." 

" Thank you, sir. Will there be anything 
further ? Good night, sir." 

And he floated out, leaving us to discuss 

Until we started this business of floating old 
Chiswick as a money-making proposition I had 
never realized what a perfectly foul time those? 
Stock Exchange chappies must have when the 
public isn't biting freely. Nowadays I read that 
bit they put in the financial reports al>out " The 
market opened quietly " with a sympathetic eye, 
for, by Jove, it certainly opened quietly 1or us ! 
You'd hardly believe how difficult it was to 
interest the public and make them take a flutter 
on the old boy. By the end of a week the only 
name we had on our list was a delicatessen-store 
keeper down in Bicky 's part of the town, and as 
he wanted us to take it out in sliced ham instead 
of casli that didn't help much. There was a 
gleam of light when the brother of Bicky 's pawn- 
broker offered ten dollars, money down, for an 
introduction to old Chiswick, but the deal fell 
through, owing to its turning out that the chap 
was an anarchist and intended to kick the old 
boy instead of shaking hands with him. At that, 
it took me tlie deuce ol a time to persuade Bicky 
not to grab the cash and let things take their 
course. He seemed to regard the pawnbroker's 
brother rather as a sportsman and benefactor of 
his species than otherwise. 

The whole thing, I'm inclined to think, would 
have been off if it hadn't been for Jeeves. There 
•is no doubt that Jeeves is in a class of his own. 
In the matter of brain and resource I don't think 
I have ever met a chappie so supremely like 
mother made. He trickled into my room one 
morning with the good old cup of tea, and 
intimated that there was something doing. 

" Might I speak to you with regard to that 
matter of his grace, sir ? " 

" It's all off. We've decided to chuck it." 

" It won't workjn^f^ari't get anybody to 






*■ I fancy I can arrange that aspect of the 
matter, sir." 

" Do you mean to say you've managed to get 
anybody ? M 

" Yes, sir. Eighty-seven gentlemen from Birds- 
burg, sir." 

I sat up in bed and spilt the tea. 
•• Eirdsburg ? " 

" Birdsburg, Missouri , sir/* 
" J low did you get them ? ** 

II I happened last night, sir, as you hod 
intimated that you would be absent from home, 
to attend a theatrical performance, and entered 
into conversation between the acts with the 
occupant of the adjoining seat. I had observed 
that he was wearing a somewhat ornate decora- 
tion in his buttonhole, sir— a large blue button 
with the words * Boost for Btrdsburg ' upon it 
in red letters -scarcely a judicious addition to a 
gentleman's evening costume. To my surprise 
I noticed that the auditorium was full of persons 
similarly decorated. 1 ventured to inquire the 
explanation, and was informed that these gentle- 
men, forming a party of eighty -seven, are a con- 
vention from a town of the name of Birdsburg 
in the State of Missouri, Their % r isit, I gathered, 
was purely of a social and pleasurable nature, 
and my informant spoke at some length of the 
entertainments arranged for their stay in the city. 
It was when he related with a considerable 
amount of satisfaction and pride that a deputa- 

tion of their number had been introduced to an<! 
had shaken hands with a well-known prize- fighter 
that it occurred to me to broach the subject of 
his grace. To make a long story short, sir, I 
have arranged, subject to your approval, that 
the entire convention shall be presented to his 
grace to-morrow afternoon.* 1 

I was amazed. This chappie was a Napoleon. 
" Eighy- seven, Jeeves J At how much a 

head ? " 

II I was obliged to agree to a reduction for 
quantity, sir* The terms finally arrived at were 
one hundred and fifty dollars for the party/' 

1 thought a "bit* 

" Payable in advance ? " 

'* No, sir* I endeavoured to obtain payment 
in advance, but was not successful/' 

" Well, anyway, when we get it I'll make it 
up to five hundred. Bicky'll never know* Do 
you suppose Mr, Bickersteth would suspect 
anything, Jeeves, if 1 made it up to nvc 
hundred ? |J 

" 1 fancy not, sir. Mr. Bickersteth is an 
agreeable gentleman, but not bright. *' 

M All right, then, After breakfast run down 
to the bank and get me sonic money/' 

" Yes, sir/' 

" Von know, you're a bit of a marvel, Jeeves," 

** Thank vou, sir/' 

" i^e^rfrjinalf[prn 



When I took dear old Bicky aside in the course 
of the morning and told him what had happened 
he nearly broke down. He tottered into the 
sitting-room and buttonholed old Chiswick, who 
was reading the comic section of the morning 
paper with a kind of grim resolution. 

"Uncle," he said, "are you doing anything 
special to-morrow afternoon ? I mean to say, 
I've asked a few of my pals in to meet you, don't 
you know." 

The old boy cocked a speculative eye at him. 

" There will be no reporters among them ?" 

" Reporters ? Rather not ! Why ? " 

" I refuse to be badgered by repdrters. There 
were a number of adhesive young, men who 
endeavoured to elicit from me my views on 
America while the boat was approaching the 
dock. I will not be subjected to this persecution 

" That'll be absolutely all right, uncle. There 
wn't be a newspaper-man in the place." 

" In that case I shall be glad to make the 
acquaintance of your friends." 

" You'll shake hands with them, and so 
forth ? " 

" 1 shall naturally order my behaviour accord- 
ing to the accepted rules of civilized intercourse." 

Bicky thanked him heartily and came off to 
lunch with me at the club, where he babbled 
freely of hens, incubators, and other rotten 

After mature consideration we had decided 
to unleash the Birdsburg contingent on the old 
boy ten at a time. Jeeves brought his theatre- 
pal round to see us, and we arranged the whole 
thing with him. A very decent chappie, but 
rather inclined to collar the conversation and 
turn it in the direction of his home-town's new 
water-supply system. We settled that, as an 
hour was about all he would be likely to stand, 
each gang should consider itself entitled to seven 
minutes of the duke's society by Jeeves' stop- 
watch, and that when their time was up Jeeves 
should slide into the room and cough meaningly. 
Then we parted with what I believe are called 
mutual expressions of good-will, the Birdsburg 
chappie extending a cordial invitation to us all 
to pop out some day and take a look at the new 
water-supply system, for which we thanked him. 

Next day the deputation rolled in. The first 
shift consisted of the cove we had met and nine 
others almost exactly like him in every respect. 
They all looked deuced keen and businesslike, 
as if from youth up they had been working in 
the office and catching the boss's eye and what 
not. They shook hands with the old boy with 
a ;ood deal of apparent satisfaction — all except 
o chappie, who seemed to be brooding about 
* iething- and then they stood oft and became 
c tty. 

What message have you fdr Birdsburg, 
d Ke ? " asked our pal. 

rhe old boy seemed a bit rattled. 
' I have never been to Birdsburg." 
The chappie seemed pained. 
' You should pay it a visit," he said. " The 
n st rapidly-growing city in the country. Boost 
f< Birdsburg 1" 

" Boost for Birdsburg ! " said the other 
chappies reverently. 

The chappie who had been brooding suddenly 
gave tongue. 

" Say ! " 

He was a stout .sort of well-fed cove with one 
of those determined chins and a cold eye. 

The assemblage looked at him. 

"Asa matter of business," said the chappie — 
" mind you, I'm not questioning anybody's good 
faith, but, as a matter of strict business — I think 
this gentleman here ought to put himself on 
record before witnesses as stating that he really 
is a duke." 

11 What do you mean, sir ? " cried the old boy, 
getting purple. 

" No offence, simply business. I'm not saying 
anything, mind you, but there's one thing that 
seems kind of funny to me. This gentleman here 
says his name's Mr. Bickersteth, as I understand 
'it. Well, if you're the Duke of Chiswick, why 
isn't he Lord Percy Something ? I've read 
English novels, and I know all about it." 

" This is monstrous ! " 

" Now don't get hot under the collar. I'm 
only asking. I've a right to know. You're 
going to take our money, so it's only fair 
that [we should see that we get our money's 

The water-supply cove chipped in : — 

" You're quite right, Simms. I overlooked 
that when making the agreement. You see, 
gentlemen, as business men we've a right to 
reasonable guarantees of good faith. We are 
paying Mr. Bickersteth here a hundred and fifty 
dollars for this reception, and we naturally want 
to know " 

Old Chiswick gave Bicky a searching look ; 
then* he turned to the water-supply chappie, 
lie was frightfully calm. 

" I can assure you that I know nothing of 
this," he said, quite politely. " I should be 
grateful if you would explain." 

" Well, we arranged with Mr. Bickersteth that 
eighty-seven citizens of Birdsburg should have 
the privilege of meeting and shaking hands with 
you for a financial consideration mutually 
arranged, and what my friend Simms here 
means — and I'm with him — is that we have only 
Mr. Bickersteth 's word for it — and he is a 
stranger to us — that you are the Duke of Chiswick 
.at all." 

Old Chiswick gulped. 

" Allow me to assure you, sir," he said, in a 
rummy kind of voice, " that I am the Duke of 

" Then that's all right," said the chappie, 
heartily. " That was all we wanted to know. 
Let the thing go on." 

" I am sorry to say," said old Chiswick, " that 
it cannot go on. I am feeling a little tired. I 
fear I must ask to be excused." 

" But there are seventy-seven of the boys 
waiting round the corner at this moment, duke, 
to be introduced to you." 

** I fear I must disappoint them." 

" But in that case the deal would have to be? 




u That is a matter for 
you and my nephew to 

The chappie seemed 

'* You really won't 
meet the rest of them ? " 


" Well, then, I giaess 
we 1 !! he going/' 

They went out, and 
there was a pretty solid 
silence- Then old Chis- 
wick turned to Bicky : — 

" Weil? " 

Bicky didn't seem to 
have anything to say. 

11 Was it true what 
that man said ? " 

" Yes, uncle." 

" What do you mean 
by playing this trick ? " 

Bicky seemed pretty 
well knocked out, so I 
put in a word : — 

" 1 think you'd better 
explain the whole thing, 
Bicky, old top." 

Bicky 's Adam 's-apple 
jumped about a bit : 
then he started : — 

44 You see, you had cut 
oft my allowance, uncle, 
and I wanted a bit of 
money to start a chicken 
farm. I mean to say it's 
an absolute cert if you 
once get a bit of capital. 
You buy a hen, and it 
lays an egg every day of 
the week, and you sell the eggs, say, seven for 
twenty -five cents. 

M Keep of hen costs nothing. Profit practi- 
cally M 

" What is all this nonsense about heus ? You 
led me to suppose you were a substantial business 

" Old Bicky rather exaggerated, sir," I said, 
helping the chappie out. " The fact is, the poor 
old lad is absolutely dependent on that remit- 
tance of yours, and when you cut it off, don't 
you know, he was pretty solidly in the soup, and 
had to think of some way of closing in on a bit 
of the ready pretty quick. That's why we thought 
of this hand -shaking scheme" 

Old Chiswick foamed at the mouth. 

" So you have lied to me ! You have de- 
liberately deceived me as to your financial 
status 1 " 

" Poor old Bicky didn't want to go to that 
ranch/' X explained, " He doesn't like cows and 
horses, but he rather thinks he would be hot 
stuff among the hens. All he wants is a bit of 
capital* Don't you think it would be rather a 
wheeze if you were to " 

'* After what has happened ? After this 
t"his deceit and foolery ? . Jfot T ^^rt|i$ni '[ 


" Not a penny !" 

There was a respectful cough in the back- 

' If I might make a suggestion, sir ? " 

Jeeves was standing on the horizon, looking j 
devilish brainy. „ 

" Go ahead, Jeeves 1 " I said. 

" I would merely suggest, sir, that if Mr. 
Biekersteth is in need of a little ready money, and 
is at a loss to obtain it elsewhere, he might 
secure the sum he requires by describing the 
occurrences of this, afternoon for the Sunday 
issue of one of the more spirited and entcq^rising 
newspapers. 11 

M By Jove! " I said. 

u By George \ J ' said Bicky. 

" Great heavens \ " said old Chiswick* 

iA Very good, sir/' said Jeeves. 

Bicky turned to old Chmvick with a gleai 

" Jeeves is right ! Ill do it i The CAw 
would jump at it. They eat that sort of stu. 

Old Chiswick gave a kind of moaning ho* 
I absolutely forbid vou l Francis, to do 
thing 3 " 

fullv bracQ^Jftot^Fffen't eet the money 





r «£^f^ 





t s 







" Wait I Er — wait, my boy ! You are so 
impetuous \ We might arrange so me thing." 
- I won't go to that bally ranch." 
4 No, no ! No, no, my boy S I would not 
suggest it. I would not for a moment suggest 

it, I — I think " He seemed to have a 

bit of a struggle with himself. " 1 — I think 
that, on the whole, it would be best if you 
returned with me to England. I— I might — in 
fact, I think I sec my way to doing — to — I might 
be able to utilize your services in some secretarial 

" 1 shouldn't mind that." 
" 1 should not be able to ofier you a salary, 
but, as you know, in English political life the 

secretary is a recognized figure JJ 

lie only figure I'll recognize," said Bicky, 
./, "is live hundred quid a year, paid 
y dear boy \ " 
bsolutcly f " 

ut your recompense, my dear Francis, 

a, consist in the unrivalled opportunities you 

Id have, as my secretary, to £ain experience, 

-™stom yourself to the intricacies of political 

life, to— in fact, you would 
be in an exceedingly ad- 
vantageous position,* 

" Five hundred a year ! M 
said Bicky, rolhng it round 
his tongue, ,J Why, that 
would be nothing to what 
I could make if I started 
a chicken- farm. It stands 
to reason. Suppose you 
have a dozen hens. Each 
ot the hens has a dozen 
chickens. After a bit the 
chickens grow up and have 
a dozen chickens each 
themselves, and then they 
all start laying eggs ? 
There's a fortune in it. 
You can get anything you 
like for eggs in America. 
Chappies keep them on ice 
for years and years, and 
don't sell them till they 
fetch about a dollar a 
whirl. You don't think 
I'm going to chuck a 
future like this for any- 
thing under five, hundred 
o 1 goblins a year — what ? " 

A look of anguish passed 
over old Chis wick's face, 
then he seemed to be 
resigned to it. " Very well, 
my boy/' he said, 

" What-o ! " said Bicky, 
M All right, then." 

" Jeeves," I said. Bicky 
had taken the old boy off 
to dinner to celebrate, and 
Jeeves, this has been one of 


we were alone. ' 
your best efforts. 1 

11 Thank you, sir/* 

"It beats me how you do it/* 

" Yes, sir." 

fi The only trouble is you haven't got much 
out of it —what I " 

" I fancy Mr. Bickersteth intends — I judge 
from his remarks — to signify his appreciation of 
anything I have been fortunate enough to do 
to assist him, at some later date when he is in a 
more favourable position to do ao." 

" It isn't enough, Jeeves I " 

H Sir ? " 

It was a wrench, but I felt it was the only 
possible thing to be done. 

fl Bring my shaving things/* 

A gleam of hope shone in the chappies eye, 
mixed with doubt* 

-- You mean, sir ? " 

11 And shave off my moustache/' 

There was a moment's silence. I could see 
the fellow was deeply moved, 

' Thank you very much indeed, sir/' he said, 
in a low voice, and popped o£L 

Original from 

Trie Reynolds Group 


Illustrated by E. S. Hodgson. 

great aunt 

HIS," said Lord Louis Lewis, 
pointing to a three-quarter- 
kngth picture, which was 
rnrlining against a pillar at 
the foot of the staircase, 
"is a Reynolds. The lady 
represented was, I believe, 
of mine. The light is 
even so the touch of the 

a very 

indifferent , but 

master is unmistakable." 

Mr, 1 Russell Yorke adjusted his pince-nez. 

<4 A very remarkable piece of painting,'* 
he observed. 

"You are right/' assented Lord Louis; 
" but , on the other hand, the composition 
is extremely bad." 

" I was about to say as much/' agreed Mr. 
Yorke. " I am almost tempted to believe 
that this portrait has been cut down." 

Lord Louis nodded. " The possibility 
had occurred to me," he said, " My poor 
cousin, from whom I acquired it, after his 
decease, was the type of man who would not 
think twice about committing such an act." 

"It is hard to conceive any relative of 
yours, Lord Louis, being capable of such a 
wanton act/ 1 Mr, Yorke commented. 

" Ah, Mr. Yorke/' said Lord Louis, " the 
artistic temperament was not evenly dis- 
tributed amongst the members of my famly. 
The particular branch of which my unhappy 
cousin was the last descendant was singularly 
free from aesthetic tastes," 

" You speak of your unhappy cousin ? " 
queried Mr, Yorke. 

11 For two reasons," replied Lord Louis, 
11 The first a conventional one, because he is 
no longer with us, the second because he 
hastened his own end by alcoholic excess. 
During the last few years of his life he was 
seldom sober, and was ministered to by an 
old man-servant who, if rumour speaks the 
truth, was almost as dissolute as his master/ 1 

" A sad story/' said Mr, Yorke, " I read 
something of it in the paper a day or two ago- 
Thc estate he left was not large/' 

11 It was not," said Lord Louis. " A matter 
of a few hundreds, the house in which he 
died, and some furniture which went to the 
man-servant Griffe, The remainder of the 
family treasures, with the exception of this 
portrait j a crate or two of books, and a very 
perfect Nant Garw dessert service which 
came to me, had been sold to gratify his 
unconquerable thirst." 

" If you have no objection," ventured Mr. 
Yorke, " it would be interesting to remove 
the picture from its frame. We should then 
be able to judge whether or no it has been 
tampered with," 

The task was easily accomplished- Ir>was 
then clearly evident that Lord Louis' surmise 
was correct. The painted surface of the 
canvas did not leave off with the front anas 
of the stretcher, as is usual, but ran right 
round to the buck. Here, however, the sur- 
face was so coated with dirt that ail detnl 
had entirely vanished. 

The tacks which held the canvas to the 
stretcher were old and rusty, and some time 
elapsed before they were extracted and the 
two experts were able to commence cleaning 
the ingrained filth from the surface. 

Lord Louis had been working assiduously 
upon the right-hand side of the canvas when, 
suddenly, he remarked : — 

^ This is very odd ! I don't know what you 
make of it, but I should describe that as a 
man's hand." 

Mr. Yorke drected his gaze to the part 

"You are right/ 1 he exclaimed; cc it is 
a man's hand. But why should it be 
there ?"" 

Lord Louis rubbed his chin. 

" It occurs to me," he said, " that lis 
portrait is a section of a larger group/' - ' r - 
Yorke nodded his head* and Lord Lo lis 
continued, " Everything points to that in- 
clusion. Sir Joshua Reynolds would ne 1 ct 
have been guilty of such a bad compositi in, 

wafeft w tim.$ti e figure ' proba h!y 



that of my very great uncle, standing behind 
the sofa on the right-hand side/ 1 

Mr. Russell Yorke was swift to endorse 
Lord Louis' hypothesis* 

After much energy with a raw potato 
another discovery rewarded their labours. 
At a spot where the knees of the late Lady 
Anne Sefton were cut by the edge of the can- 
vas rested two small hands clasped together. 
When the picture was cut these hands had 
been severed an inch or two above the wrists. 

u Our inquiry moves quickly/' said Lord 
Louis Lewis j with suppressed excitement. 
Ci Beyond all doubt this group was composed of 
three figures. Lord and Lady Sefton and 
their infant son." 

Mr. Yorke was quite agitated, 

" What diabolical intention induced any- 
one to destroy so beautiful a work?" he 
queried. " If this picture had been whole 
it would have been almost pried t\ss.' T 

Lord Louis straightened his back* 

" Mr, Yorke;' he said, " I shall not rest 
until I have solved the mystery and regained 
the missing portions of this work. In saying 
so 1 do not speak 1 ightly , And now let us take 
a glass of wine 
together and 
the enterprise-" 

Two morn- 
ings later Mr. 
Russell Yorke 
received a wire 
from Lord 
Louis re- 
questing h i s 
presence at 
Brut on House, 
the latter ] s 

n arrival 
he was shown 
into a small 
room , where 
L^rd Louis 




t of coffee, 
ck of dry 

t s and a dish of hot-house peaches, 
jped up against a silver rose-bowl was an 
,l alf- bound book of MSS. engaging his 
^tion while he broke his fast. 

am delighted you were able to come," 
Lord Louis. " Will you join me in a < 
^ec ? n 


Receiving a courteous negative he proceeded 
to explain his reasons for sending the wire, 

"In examining the crate of books, which I 
mentioned as having come from my unhappy 
cousin, I made this discovery." He indicated 
the volume before him. u It is no less than a 
diary from the hand of Lady Anne Sefton, 
whose portrait was occupying our attention 
the day before yesterday. Pray listen to this 
passage/' and he turned over several pages 
of the MSS. M Here we are. * The portrait 
group of John, myself, and little Philip 
proceeds vastly wclh Sir Joshua says it 
bids fair to out-rival all his other works. A 
most pleasant man. Sir Joshua, and dexterous 
with his brush beyond belief. His only 
regret is that he cannot induce John to re- 
main stilL Sitting for his portrait causes 
John to display greater choler than here- 
tofore. 1 upbraided him roundly this morn- 
ing for want of sobriety. He had partaken so 
f reely, even at the early hour of eleven of the 
clock, as to be unable to stand, and did rock 
so perilously at the back of the sofa as to 
cause little Philip to cry of fright and Sir 
Joshua to lay aside his brushes and declare it 

a%'ailed nothing 
to proceed/ " 

Lord Louis 
turned over a 
couple of pages. 
"If you will 
look here," he 
said , "you will 
see that Lady 
Sefton made a 
rough sketch in 
outline of the 
arrangement of 
the figures. 
There! She 
herself, as w r e 
rightly sur- 
mised, was the 
central subject* 
Her husband 
is supporting 
himself at 
the back of the 
couch , a wise 
precaution, I 
have no doubt. 
At his feet is a work-basket containing an 
embroidery frame. On our left we have the 
son, Philip, beside whom a mongrel dog is 
seated. For an amateur the drawing is not 
without merit.'* 
"A most v^w^teatrfpord/* observed Mr, 



12 + 


" True/' Lord Louis acquiesced. " We 
now pass over a period of two years. Oh, by 
the way/' he interpolated, whilst seeking 
the latef entry, " she mentions the dimensions 
of the portrait as being six foot six by eight 
feet. Now, then. This explains how the 
picture came to be divided — the reason, as 
you will learn, being domestic, and of a pain- 
ful character/' 

" I am all attention," said Mr. Yorke, 
resting his elbows on the table. Lqrd Louis 
began to read : — 

" * The differences between myself and John 
have reached the final stage. I have decided 
that I cannot continue to dwell with him 
beneath the same roof.' An interval of four 
. days, then this : ' John is much rejoiced by 
my determination. It is settled that I 
remain here, whilst he goes to London.' " 
Lord Louis turned over three or four pages. 
" Listen to this," he said. " ' A great 
trouble has arisen over the division of our 
effects. John insists that the Reynolds 
group belongs to him, for all that he borrowed 
the money from my private purse wherewith 
to pay for it. . . . We have come to a decision 
at last, but I fear a sorry one, and tremble as 
to what Sir Joshua would say should news 
come to his ears. John's figure is to be cut 
from the group.' " 

Mr. Yorke clasped his hands in pious horror 
and Lord Louis nodded sympathetically. 

" There is a passage here explaining how 
this was done," he said. " It appears that 
Lord John was much incensed to find Lady 
Anne's work-basket at his feet, and accord- 
ingly cut off the lower part of the canvas 
upon which this was painted, thereby 
transforming his portrait into a three- 
quarter length. This study in still life, 
which, I ascertain from the diary, measured 
twenty-four inches by thirty, was retained by 
her ladyship." 

" Is there no mention of why the child was 
severed from the group ? " demanded Mr. 

Lord Louis picked up the diary, and read 
the ensuing passage : — 

" * Many anxieties have I been caused as 
to who should have the custody of "little 
Philip. Although John bears the child 
naught but ill-will he intends to take him 
from me. Rather than lose the dear infant 
I put it to John that he should have the por- 
trait of the child while I retained the little 
one himself. I did argue that a painted 
picture would be less disposed to cast John 
into a frenzy than its living presentment. 
To this point John conceded, and he set 

about, therewith, to the further despoiling 
of Sir Joshua's masterpiece.' " 

Lord Louis moistened his finger and turned 
over three pages. 

" This is the last entry which concerns 
our investigation," he remarked. * . . . . John 
has gone and Philip and myself were vastly 
joyed to see the last of him. I pray, most 
devoutly, that never again shall I be Bur- 
thened by the sight of him. He carried away 
his own and Philip's portrait and what little 
wine the cellars contained. The portrait 
of myself has been framed, but presents a 
sorry appearance, being over narrow for its 
length and top-heavy withal. I have also 
found a frame for the painting of my work- 
basket and embroidery tambour, but that, 
too, looks indifferent well with John's ankles 
and feet in the background.' " 

" An artistic tragedy," murmured Mr. 

" And a domestic one," added Lord Louis. 
11 It should, however, assist us greatly in 
prosecuting our search. We know, now, 
that there are three sections of the portrait 
to be found instead of two. A call upon my 
cousin's man-servant might not come amiss. 
He is still dwelling in his late master's house, 
the lease having been made over to him for 
his lifetime. In the meanwhile I have 
decided to insert this advertisement in all 
the leading journals." And he handed 
his friend a sheet of note-paper bearing the 
words : — 

" Lord Louis Lewis of Bruton House, 
Clifton, would be glad to purchase the follow- 
ing works of art : The .portrait of a gentle- 
man, minus his right hand, and both feet 
below the knees. Dimensions 54 by 24 ins. 
Period : Middle of eighteenth century. The 
portrait of a small boy and mongrel dog. 
Both hands must be missing and the back- 
ground to consist of red drapery and a con- 
ventional landscape. Dimensions 78 by 35 ins. 
Period : the same." 

Mr. Yorke nodded his approval and returned 
the paper slip with the words, " You have 
omitted to mention the work-basket." 

" Purposely," replied his host. " If it 
should still be in the possession of my late 
cousin's servant it is wiser not to arouse his 
suspicions until I have made a personal call." 

4< Quite," endorsed Mr. Yorke, then adding, 
" Is this person a resident of Bristol ? " 

'* No. He is living in Wells," replied 
Lord Louis. " at a house called ' La Peruse. 1 " 

Lord Louis' advertisement appeared on the 
following morning. One of the persons upon 
whom it created the greatest effect was Mr. 




Eden Kineagie. It was this gentleman's 
boast that he knew more about pictures 
than anyone else. 

Mr. Kineagie was an odd, round-shouldered 
little man of indeterminate age. 

The announcement attracted his attention 
at breakfast on the second day of its 

Forgetful of everything else he sprang to 
his feet and hurried out into the hall. Un- 
locking the door with a Yale key, he admitted 
himself to a large gallery, the walls of which 
were covered with priceless works of art. 
In the farthest corner was a narrow, three- 
quarter length of an eighteenth-century 
gentleman, whose right hand passed beyond 
the margin of the frame. 

Before this work Mr. Kineagie halted. 

11 Must be — must be," he muttered. " Now 
I shall find out who you are." 

A couple of minutes later Mr. Kineagie 
was hurrying to Paddington Station. 

By an odd chance Mr. Russell Yorke 
received a note, by -the same post, asking 
him to run over to Wells that day ahd take 
lunch with his brother-in-law. 

He arrived at that town before twelve. 
On presenting his card at the hotel he 
discovered that his brother-in-law was out, 
and not expected to return till one o'clock. 

The day being fine, Mr. Yorke decided to 
follow his example, and allowed his footsteps 
to lead him where they willed. 

After walking for some ten minutes Mr. 
Yorke was attracted by a green bench, in 
the shade of a chestnut tree. Here he sat 
down and lit a pipe. Immediately facing 
him was a little, old Georgian house, upon 
the gate of which were written the words 
" la Peruse." Something in the name struck 
a familiar note in Mr. Yorke' s mind. Then 
he recalled that " La Peruse " was the house 
in which Lord Louis' cousin had breathed his 
last. Mr. Yorke rose to his feet. 

Without considering what he intended to 
say, he crossed and rang the bell and presently 
the front door was opened. The sight which 
greeted Mr. Yorke was not a pleasant one. 
His best friend could not have described 
W trifle as anything but a plain man. 
fell ? " grunted Mr. Griffe. 
l am a friend of Lord Louis Lewis's, who 
w i legatee under your late master's will," 
* Mr. Yorke: 

/ell," he repeated. 

ord Louis is anxious to find out the 
w teabouts of a certain picture, which he 
b ives may have been in the possession of 
y« master at the time of his death.^ < 

" The picture was sent to him," replied 
Griffe, warily. 

"lam not referring to the portrait of the 
lady," went on Mr. Yorke, '" but to a smaller 
canvas of lesser importance, consisting merely 
of a work-basket and an embroidery frame." 

Griffe' s eyes narrowed. " I know nothing 
about it," he said. 

" Then I will trespass no further upon 
your time," Mr. Yorke replied, coldly. 

" Half a minute," grunted Mr. Griffe, 
rather hesitatingly. " Is this picture valu- 
able, eh ? " 

"That is not the point," retorted Mr. 
Yorke. " All your late employer's pictures 
are now Lord Louis' property, and if it is 
still here and you have failed to send it, you 
are committing a breach of the law." 

" Well, it isn't here, so I'm not," snapped 
Griffe, and slammed the door. 

Mr. Yorke turned away not a little ruffled 
by the rudeness of his reception. Passing the 
garden gate he noticed there was a u To Let " 
board in front of the house. * 

At half-past three that afternoon Lord 
Louis Lewis had a caller. Badger, the butler, 
entered with a card on a tray, bearing the 
name " Mr. Eden Kineagie." 

" Show the gentleman in," said Lord Louis. 

Ignoring ^11 formalities Mr. Kineagie 
went straight at the object of his call. 

" Where's the picture?" he rapped out. 
" Let's have a look at it." 

Lord Louis raised his eyebrows, an amused 
smile playing over his features. 

" I perceive," he said, " that I have not 
cast my nets in vain. You are here, Mr. 
Kineagie, in answer to my advertisement ? " 

" I am here because of it," came the reply. 
" If you have got the picture, let's have a 
look. My time's valuable." 

" Follow me, then " ; and Lord Louis 
led the way into an inner apartment, where 
the Reynolds, temporarily replaced in its 
frame, was hanging. " There ! " he indicated. 

Mr. Kineagie examined it minutely. He 
crossed to the window and threw back the 
curtains, thus admitting more light, then 
clambered up on a chair and glued his nose 
to the canvas. During the whole of this 
period no word was spoken. Finally he 
descended and turned his little, bead-like eyes 
upon Lord Louis. 

" I'll buy," he said. " How much ? " 

" I fear," remarked Lord Louis, " that you 
cannot have read my advertisement aright. 
I wish to purchase > not to sell." 

u Give you four thousand lor her " Kineagie 




exclaimed. " She's no use without the 
man— and I've got him." 

"Have you indeed? 1 ' said the peer, 
greatly interested. " I am delighted to 
hear it + I offer you five thousand for 
him 3 which is a fair price considering he 
is of no value without the lady." 

Mr. Kineagie shot a shrewd glance at 
Lord Louis from under his bushy eye- 

" You have got to sell;' he said. 
<f Fvc been looking for this for years and 
don't mean to lose it now." Lord Louis 
shrugged his shoulders. " I stop at 
nothing when Fm after a thing. Arc 
you going to sell ? " 

" Certainly not/' replied Lord Louis. 
" I am just as determined to possess your 
portion of this group as you are to possess 
mine. Besides, let me remind you that 
the rest of the picture is still to he found, 
and until then the canvas will he of no 
rt>al value to either of us. Let 
us return to the other room and 
discuss the matter in < omfort." 

Lord Louis found his torn- 
panion a most difficult person 
to deal 
with. He 
to agree to 
any pro- 
posal, and 
it was not 
until Lord 
Louis had 
the inspi- 
ration to 
make an 
to his 
that an un- 
ing w a s 
arrived at. 

It was decided that whoever secured the part 
of the picture representing the child should 
be able to purchase from the other at a fixed 
sum of four thousand pounds the remaining 
portion or portions of the canvas. In order 
that there should be no unfairness or special 
advantage Lord Louis showed Kineagie certain 
passages in the diary and also the little pencil 
sketch Lady Anne had made* The only 
thing that he refused to confide was where the 
portrait of Lady Anne had come from, as 

i'll buy, 1 he said. ' now much 

3 j .. 

he did not wish Mr. Kineagie to steal a march 
upon him^with the man Griffe. -Mr. Kineagie 
in return told how he had acquired the por- 
trait of Lord Sefton, having bought it at the 
Caledonian Market for a few shillings. 

Eventually Lord Louis rose to end the 

w Well, Mr. Kineagie/* he said, " it will be 
interesting to see who w!ns the prize. I trust 
I may be forgiven for hoping it w.ll not be 

Diversity of Michigan 

these things j the diary and the painting, came 
from a cousin of yours, What did you say 
his name was ? " 

1 I carefully omitted all mention of either 
his name or hits address/' replied Lord Louis, 
with a smile. f The picture arrived from 
another city in company with that case of 
books which I have not yet unpacked.' 1 

* repeated Kineagie, and followed 
hv Lord Louis walked across the hall towards 
Ihe open front door, arriving there at the 
same moment that Mr, Russell Yorke turned 
the dri\'e gates, 
iloa, where did I put my hat ? " lie 

* You left it in the smoking-room, I 
fancy," said Lord Louis. 

I did/' he said, and quickly returned 
r that apartment, leaving Lord Louis to 
weleome the new arrival. 

Mr. Kineagie"* actions in the smoking- 
room were brief but dishonourable. He put 
i In : hat, then crossing to the table sl'pped 
Lidy Anne's diary under his overcoat. His 
eye was attracted towards the wooden case 
containing the books. He stepped towards it 
and looked at the label, on which was wr tten 
Lord Louis* address and that of the sender, 
he whipped off and dropped into his 
pocket, then went straight from the room. 

He acknowledged Lord Louis' farewell 
salute with a curt nod and made off from the 
premises at a brisk pace. 

' Wasn't that Eden Kineagie ? " demanded 
Mr. Yorke. 

1 The same/' replied Lord Louis, and, 
leading his guest to the smoke-room, re- 
counted all that had taken place, 

Thereupon Mr, Yorke took up the tale of 
his adventure with Griffe. 
At the conclusion Lord Louis puckered his 
Vi It is good of you to have taken so 
much trouble/' he said, Li but I wonder if 
we have been wise to arouse this mans 

He undoubtedly knew nothing of the 
tare," replied Mr. Yorke. 
"Good? You said the house 
! tl get an order to -view 
gaining admittance— 
i -iptly, his eyes upon 
range/' he said- !l I could 



was to let. 

This will ensure 

-" He stopped 

the centre table. 

have sworn I 

Lady Anne's diary on that table. I took 

■?m that case to show to Mr. Kineagie.' 1 

V'ou returned it unconsciously, perhaps/ 7 

"sted Mr. Yorke, 

Louis walked over to the case to make 


** No, it is not here," he said, then added, 
" Dear me!" The last remark being in- 
spired by the sight of the four tintacks which 
had recently held the label to the box. 

" What's' the matter ? " demanded Mr. 

Lord Louis spoke very incisively, tl Our 
friend Kineagie/' he said; u does not intend 
the grass to grow beneath his feet. In 
returning to this room to fetch his hat he not 
only took Lady Anne's diary, which w 11 in 
no way aid his search, but also lore off the 
label from this box — which I now remember 
bore my late cousin's address as well as my 
own. He will know now where the work- 
basket canvas may possibly be found.' 5 Mr. 
Yorke whistled. li I think/ 5 continued Lord 

I ouis, picking up a time-table, u I should be 
wise to go to Wells immediately. Be so good 
as to look me up a train while I send a wire." 

Mr. Yurke took the time-table and Lord 
Louis addressed the following telegram to 
Mr. K ncagie. whose card he had retained. 

" Eden Kineagie. Staintons, Fellow's 
Road, Hampstead, N.W, To remind you of 
the eighth commandment which escaped your 
memory in my smoking-room this afternoon. 
— Lewis/' 

" There/* he said, handing the form to 
Mr. Yorke. "Ido not imagine that he will 
have returned home, but I should like him 
to know when he does that his theft has not 
passed unnoticed. What are the trains ? " 

" The last to-day left an hour ago. There 
is one in the morning at nine forty-five/' 

" I will catch that/' said Lord Louis. 

II It is possible you might be able to do me a 
service at the station. Let us breakfast 
together here at eight-thirty." 

<4 Delighted/* said Mr, Yorke, and bade 
farewell to his host. 

That night , at about two a«m., Lord Louis' 
house was broken into- The catch of a down- 
stairs window was forced and the sash raised, 
admitting an individual of inconspicuous 
appearance. This person's movements were 
not in accord with those of the average bur- 
glar. He carried neither a bag nor a weapon, 
but only an electric torch, the light from 
which he directed exclusively at the walls. 
He did not devote much time to anything 
until the light revealed the Reynolds portrait. 
Here, following the example of Eden Kineagie, 
he mounted a chair and exposed the canvas 
to a searching examination. He paid par- 
ticular attention to the left side of the picture. 
This done a sigh of sans fact ion escaped his 

lips. Mv^TTOWiHlGAfr"* on the 



writing-table until he found a specimen of 
Lord Louis', signature. This he carefully 
stowed away in his breast-pocket. After 
which he crossed the hall, opened the front 
door, and closed it silently behind him. 
Neither then nor afterwards was anybody 
aware that this visit had been made. 

At breakfast the following morning Lord 
Louis made certain arrangements with Mr. 
Vorke for the latter to carry out should the 
necessity arise. At nine o'clock the car 
conveyed them to the station. 

" You understand what to do should 
Kineagie appear ? " Lord Louis questioned. 

" Quite/' returned the other. 

" There is no other train until eleven- 
twenty. We must prevent him from travel- 
ling by this one at all costs." 

" Rely on me," replied Mr. Yorke, and 
turned into the platform waiting-room. 
Lord Louis entered the first compartment 
after the engine. A short while later people 
began to take their seats, but it was not until 
about two minutes before the scheduled time 
for starting that Mr. Yorke's vigil was 
rewarded and he espied the bunched-up 
figure of Eden Kineagie hurrying down the 
platform. Mr. Yorke carefully noted the 
carriage he entered and then transferred 
his attentions to the guard. He waited until 
the guard was raising his green flag before 
leaping from concealment. Straight as a die 
he ran to Mr. Kineagie's carriage ahd, flinging 
open the door, cried, breathlessly : — 

" Mr. Kineagie ! " 

" Well ? " retorted that individual, as the 
train began to move from the platform. 

" Do you want the picture of the child ? " 
he gasped. 

41 Yes. Get in," cried Kineagie. 

"No. You get out," he insisted. "If 
you don't you'll lose it." 

Mr. Kineagie hesitated and a porter 
shouted, " Stand away, there." 

" Too late ! " cried Mr. Yorke, and began 
to close the door. 

" Too late be hanged," yelled Kineagie, 
and sprang out upon the platform. " Now, 
then, what's it all about ? " 

But Mr. Yorke was so put to it for breath 
as to be unable to make any reply until the 
train was well out of reach. Then his answer 
was something in the nature of a surprise. 

" I fear," he said, " I am the cause of your 
losing the train." 

" That don't matter," returned the other. 
" If you have got the picture." 

"But I haven't," Mr. Yorke blandly 

replied. " I merely asked if you wanted it. 
Ah, see! There is our friend < Lord Louis 
waving from his carriage window." 

There followed a period in which Mr. Eden 
Kineagie spoke his mind with alarming frank- 
ness, and was warned by a station official 
that unless he modified his language unpleasant 
consequences would inevitably ensue. 

Lord Louis alighted at Wells, and in les> 
than a quarter of an hour stood at the door 
of his late cousin's abode, armed with an order 
to view, bearing his incognito of Mr. Clifton. 

Griffe, who admitted his lordship, expressed 
his readiness to show Mr. Clifton, over *the 
house, and hoped it might suit him. Lord 
Louis made a careful survey of 'the walls, 
but beyond a few oleographs and valueless 
engravings his search was unrewarded. 

They had now arrived at the top floor, and 
still nothing had been revealed. 

" There are just a couple of maids' rooms 
here," said Griffe, " and this is a cupboard." 

" Ah ! " said Lord Louis, brightening up. 
" Cupboards interest me very much. But 
the door, I perceive, is locked." 

" Yes," replied Griffe, with a trace of hesita- 
tion. " And somehow I have mislaid the 

Very reluctantly Lord Louis allowed 
himself to be drawn away from the closed 
cupboard and led below. 

Lord Louis inspected the morning-room, 
which evidenced signs of its owner's habits. 
Before going he turned his attention to the 
walls. It ^as evident the room had not been 
papered for many years, as all trace of the 
pattern had long since vanished in a uniform, 
yellowy brown. Suddenly he experienced a 
shock. Immediately over the mantelpiece 
was an oblong patch in which the original 
design of the wall-paper was clearly visible. 
There could be no doubt that a picture had 
been recently removed which must have been 
suspended there for a very long time. Al- 
though Lord Louis could only guess at the 
size of this space he realized that it could not 
differ greatly from the dimensions of the 
Reynolds canvas depicting Lady Anne's 

Lord Louis pointed an accusing finger at 

" Griffe," he said, taking a leap in the dark, 
" you are a scoundrel." 

" What do you mean ? " cried Griffe. 

" You are a scoundrel," repeated Lord 
Louis. " I give you two minutes to bring me 
the picture which hung there, or face the 




. Crifie fell back a [>are. 
** Don 1 1 know what you're 
talking about/ 1 he stam- 

M You will gain nothing 
by prevarication," continued 
Lord Louis, "The picture 
is in the cupboard upstairs. 
Fetch it at once." 

w However did you know 
that ! M exclaimed Grifle, 
hopelessly committing 

u I am Lord Louis Lewis/* 
came the reply, in accents 
which would have graced a 
melodrama, "and I know 

" i didn't know that it 
was worth anything/' 
whined Grifle. "I wouldn't 
believe my old master when 
he said it was a good T un." 

Lord Louis relaxed a 
trifle. " Produce it now/' 
be said, ** and 1 will not 
be hard on you. But fail 
to do so^— " 

Grifle did not wait for 
the end of the sentence, 
but, muttering " 111 get it," 
slunk from the room. 

As the door closed Lord 
Louis' face broke into a 

u One up to me, Mr. 
Kineagie," he murmured 
to himself. 

Two minutes later Lady 
Anne's work - basket and 
t a m b o u r - f r a m e , as 
rendered by the hand of Sir 
Joshua Reynolds, left the 
precincts of '* La Peruse " 
under the sheltering 
arm of Lord Louis Lewis, 

Mr. Griflfe had another caller during the 
day in the person of Mr. Eden Kineagie, who, 
following his usual custom, lost no time in 
beating, a bout the bush, 

" If you've got a picture here of a work- 
basket and a bit of embroidery, I'll give you 
a couple of hundred for it T " he said. 

Whereupon Mr. Griffe reviled Mr* Kineagie 
for not coming the day before, and calling 
Heaven to witness that his luck was out, 
slammed the door in that gentleman's [ace. 

Lord Louis took advantage of his presence 
in Welte to call upon an acquaintance, and 


did not return to his native town until after 

There were two gates to Brut on House, 
and a short drive with a circular clump of 
bushes in the centre. Lord Louis entered 
by the first gate, and had taken a few paces 
down the drive when, in the light of the arc 
lamp, he became aware of a covered motor- 
van drawn up at his front door. 

The side of the van was decorated with 
the words £i T. Dorney : Pictures Restored 
and Clean ed/UfttiddeaCiflri very new white 
paint, g^tER^-^WKW^d him that 



all was not as it should be, so, instead of 
proceeding, he halted under the shadow of 
the bushes and awaited events. 

In the doorway appeared Badger, his 
butler, and a man, and between them they 
bore the portrait of Lady Anne Sefton. 
Together they raised it into the van, the 
man covering it over with a piece of sacking. 

Lord Louis was dumbfounded, and his 
first thought was to spring forward and 
rescue his property. Then a subtler possi- 
bility stole into his brain, and without 
pausing to consider the wisdom of the action, 
he thrust the canvas he was carrying into 
the bushes and skirted round to the other side 
of the clump. 

The man engaged the low gear, and the 
motor moved forward. Lord Louis waited 
until it had passed him, then, without attract- 
ing attention, sprang lightly upon the tail- 
board. To his great relief he found that the 
inside of the vehicle .was completely screened 
from the driver by the hood. He drew up 
his legs and settled down for the journey. 
They passed through the gates, turned sharp 
to the left, and bowled away briskly into the 
night. Lord Louis fully expected that the 
van would draw up in some remote part of 
the town, but herein he was mistaken. The 
driver made for the London Road, and then 
increased his speed. In twenty minutes' 
time the City of Bristol had become a mere 
twinkle of light in the distance, and they were 
rattling along in the open country. 

" Well," said Lord Louis to himself, " it 
looks as if I am in for a tour." 

Mile after mile passed. He took out his 
luminous-dialed watch and examined the 
time. It was nearly ten o'clock. A few 
minutes later he had slipped quietly into 
unconsciousness. He awoke suddenly as the 
vehicle drew up with a start. Cursing himself 
for his stupidity, he drew back to the extreme 
end of the van and covered himself over with 
the sacking. He heard the driver descend 
and rap twice at a door, which was imme- 
diately opened and a voice, evidently that 
of an old man, saying : — • 

"Have you got it ? " 

" Sure," came the reply. " Give us a 
hand and we'll take it in." 

"No— no," said the other. " Let it bide 
there. I've a fancy that we'll move the best 
stuff to-night to the other end. People are 
a bit too neighbourly hereabouts for my 

" Right you are," said Lord Louis' driver, 
" but give us a bit of supper first." 

" It's all set out in the front room," the 

older man returned. " Come in, and don't 
be long about it." 

When the door had closed behind them Lord 
Louis crept out from his hiding-place. Havifig 
come so far, he was determined to go through the adventure to the end. Moreover, 
he had a curious conviction that the house 
contained some mystery in which he was 
concerned. Remembering the words that 
the supper was laid in the front room, he 
wisely considered that the back of the house 
would be the safest point to investigate. 
There was a room at the rear wherein a light 
was visible shining through the lowered blind. 
He cautiously approached and peeped through 
a crevice between the sash and the blind. The 
room itself was practically denuded of 
furniture, but leaning against the walls were 
a number of canvases covered over with 
white cloths. One of these was larger than 
the rest, and Lord Louis' heart almost stopped 
beating when he saw the shape of it. It was 
very narrow for its length. 

"I'm going to look at that picture if I 
die in the attempt," he said. The wash- 
house boasted a window about fourteen 
inches square. By the greatest good ^fortune 
the catch was unfastened. Lord Louis 
mentally weighed the chances of squeezing 
through this aperture, then taking his 
courage in both hands* he started to do the 
deed head first. 

The task was not an easy one, and whai 
eventually he landed face downwards on the 
floor it was not without having caused con- 
siderable damage to both his clothes and 
feelings. However, these considerations did 
not oppress him, and he hastened, on tip-toe, 
to investigate the mystery of the back room. 

The door there was ajar, relieving him of the 
danger' of making a row in opening it. Going 
straight to the tall canvas, he removed its 
wrappings, and there, before him, was the 
figure of little Philip Sefton, leaning vainly 
forward as though seeking the mother from 
whose side he had been cleft. 

The sound of voices in the adjoining room 
aroused him to the necessity for formulating 
some plan of action. 

He stepped out into the hall to liste to 
what was passing there. 

"If we could get the rest of the pic re 
then we could talk," came the voice of tf 
older man. " It's twenty-five years ago s ce 
I lifted that child's portrait, and much £ )d 
it's been to me. You are sure the worn i's 
been cut down too ? " 

" You can s?e for yourself if you slip tit 

nMv&imM«JF of the mot( 



" Bad luck/' said the other. " We're not 
much better off with the two than we were 
with the one." 

li You re never satisfied. You'd grumble if 
the gates of heaven was dropped into your 

r At this point Lord Louis returned to the 
other room. It was clear that he had only 
two persons to deal with, and he rubbed his 



chin as he considered what would be the best 

method of attack. 

Then it was that Fate played a most 

unexpected move. In crossing the room 

Lord Louis brought his head into violent 

collision with the gas chandelier suspended 

from the ceiling. The result was that two 

of the globes fell to the floor with the sound 

of an exploding bomb. 
iS That's done it/' said Lord Louis to 


From the other room came a cry of " What's 

that— police ? th 

Instantly an idea flashed into the peer's 

brain, and, raising his voicej he shouted, in 

a constabulary manner ; — 

" Edwards, you clumsy fool ! Get round 

to the front door, Persons. Quick and 


T here was 
the sound of the 
window being 
hurriedly lifted 
in the front 
room, l£ Th : s 
way/' cried 
the voice of tire 
vounger man. 
U Start up the 
car/' yelled 
the older. "No 
petrol. We 
must run for 
it/' Then the 
sound of feet 
running hard 
on the pave- 
ment outside. 
Lord Louis 
arrived at the 
front door in 
time to see two 
shadowy forms 
round the 

* Well/' he 
said, "'that 
was an easy 
victory/' and 
returned to the 
house, He then 
sat down to a 
critical survey 
of the position 
of affairs " Our 
friends are 
clearly men 


I 3 2 


habit/* he argued. " I doubt if they have 
any proprietary right to the works of art 
which adorn the house. Shall I warn the 
police or shall I not ? " The upshot of 
his reasoning was that he would leave 
the police to make the discovery for them- 
selves. He then returned to the back room 
and, picking up the picture of little Philip, 
brought it out and placed it beside his 
mother in the van. The next move was 
to replenish the tank. This he did with two 
tins of petrol he found at the back. He then 
returned to the house and extinguished all 
the lights, closed the windows and front door, 
and, climbing into the driver's seat, drove 
carefully away. 

Lord Louis and the borrowed van arrived 
at Bruton House in the grey of dawn. 
Badger, who had sat up the whole night 
anxiously awaiting his master's return, greeted 
him with a combination of delight and 
astonishment. Lord Louis was too tired to 
give any explanation of his doings, but 
together they carried the precious canvases 
into the study. He also rescued the painting 
of the work-basket from the bushes in the 
drive. He then wrote a wire to Mr. Kineagie 
asking him to call at his earliest convenience 
to inspect the picture of the child, and after 
instructing Badger to have it dispatched 
as soon as the office was opened, retired 
to bed. 

He came down to breakfast at twelve 
o'clock to find that Mr. Russell Yorke was 
awaiting him in high excitement at the news 
which Badger had imparted. 

In the late afternoon Mr. Eden Kineagie 
put in an appearance. Between them Mr. 
Yorke and Lord Louis had taken the canvases 
from their stretchers and laid them in correct 
relation to each other on the library floor. 
Thither they conducted Mr. Kineagie. Mr. 
Yorke fully expected some display of violence, 
but in this he was at fault. For a long time 
Kineagie said nothing at all, and then in a 
voice which might well have come from a lover 
he remarked : — 
" Oh, you beautiful— beautiful thing." Then, 

turning to Lord Louis, " Tell your man to 
bring in the case from my cab," and a few 
moments later the portrait of Lord Sefton 
was standing next to that of his wife, with a 
greater tranquillity than he had ever displayed 
during his mortal career. 

Lord Louis was much affected by Mr. 
Kineagie's sporting acceptance of Fate's 
handiwork, and remarked upon it in most 
cordial terms. 

" Pooh," replied that gentleman. " A 
bargain's a bargain. Yours was amateur's 
luck. Will you let me have the picture put 
together for you ? I know the only man who 
could do it. P'r'aps you don't trust me, 
though ? " 

" I trust you implicitly," responded Lord 
Louis, and walked over to his writing table. 
When he returned he handed the little man 
a cheque for four thousand pounds. 

To his great surprise Mr. Kineagie tore it 
up in small pieces. 

" I collect pictures," he said, " not cheques." 
He rummaged in his pocket and flung Lady 
Anne's diary on the table, and with a muttered 
" good-bye " banged out of the house. 

As a salve to his conscience Lord Louis 
put an advertisement in the papers to the 
effect that he would be pleased to reward 
the owner of the picture of a child without 
any hands, but oddly enough he received no 
reply. He was not a little embarrassed by 
the continued presence of the motor -van 
bearing the name of " J. Dorney : Pictures 
Restored and Cleaned," but as no one came 
forward to claim the vehicle he used it for 
the conveyance of luggage to and from the 
station, and sent its equivalent value to a 
society for carrying the Gospel into the heart 
of the Congo. 

People who have been privileged to see 
the Reynolds Group declare it to be the 
finest example of that master's work in the 
kingdom, and even experts have found it 
hard to believe that for over a hundred years 
it existed as four isolated sections of the now 
perfect whole. 

Sherlock Holmes and the German Spy 


by Google 

Original from 


Most Exciting Experiences 
in V arious Wars. 


The Famous IVar Correspondent. 

DU ask me to write some of the 
most exciting experiences during 
my career as a War Correspon- 
dent. This is not very easy, as 
I have taken part in thirteen 
campaigns extending over a period 
of nearly twenty years, com- 
mencing with the Greco-Turkish War, when I 
was only sixteen years of age. 

I imagine that going into action for the first 
time must be the most exciting moment in any- 
one's life. In nine cases out of ten, the individual 
who is about to go under fire is not so much 
frightened at the prospect of death or wounds 
as haunted by the uncertainty of what his own 
conduct is going to be. Will his nerves stand the 
strain, or will he disgrace himself before his 
comrades ? But just as soon as the first bullets 
have whistled by, the tyro gains confidence, 
for, although he may be scared to death, he 
knows he can control himself. This war has 
proved that courage is the most common of all 
virtues. We all knew how our little Expedition- 
ary Force, which left these shores in August, 
191 4, would acquit itself in the face of the enemy, 
but no one could foretell how our new armies, 
drawn from all classes of society without military 
instincts or traditions, would face the dread 
ordeal. But they have proved themselves just as 
good fighters as our old regular troops, and if 
you read the papers day by day it is one long 
record of the superlative gallantry of English, 
Scotch, Irish, and Colonial Divisions. In fact, 
the same may be said of the soldiers of every 
nation engaged in the war. None of the com- 
itants can claim a monopoly of courage. 
I well remember going into action for the first 
rae in the Greco - Turkish War, and my 
nominious exit from the fight. The Turks 
ere attacking the Greek positions at Valestinos 
rith an inadequate force, as they expected them 
o run away at the first advance. But on this 
Kcasion the Greek army decided to make a 
tand. I went forward through a wood with 
ic Turkish infantry, and we steadily drove back 
le Greek skirmishers to their trenches on the 
ills behind. Both sides were armed with old- 

fashioned Martinis and Gras rifles, which fired 
black powder and gave forth dense quantities 
of smoke. The big lead bullets hummed through 
the air like angry bees, and the noise in the 
wood was perfectly deafening. I was horribly 
frightened, but kept up my spirits by continually 
discharging a small Winchester repeater with 
which I was armed, aiming at the trees in front. 
Suddenly I came upon a dead Turkish soldier, 
with his forehead blown right away by a bullet, 
and lying in a pool of blood. He was the first 
dead person I had ever seen, and the sight filled 
me with inexpressible horror. I stood and gazed 
at him in a kind of stupor for some minutes. The 
firing -line had passed out of sight, and I was 
alone. No more fighting for me that day. I 
seized my rifle and crept from the battlefield, 
being chased in my disordered imagination by a 
thousand frightful spectres. For days I could 
not forget the spectacle of that dead man with 
his head blown away. 

However, it is surprising how soon one does 
become hardened to the most dreadful sights 
in war. On the other hand, I have hardly ever 
met anyone who really became accustomed to 
being under fire. In fact, the more you see of 
war, the less you like it. It is the greatest 
mistake to suppose that a veteran is a better 
fighter thau a recruit. Especially is this true in 
modern warfare, where the strain on the nervous 
system is unprecedented, and the more men go 
into action, the quicker they lose their fighting 
efficiency. I have occasionally come across types 
who are apparently without nerves, and who 
actually seem to enjoy going into the most 
da»gerous places for the sake of adventure. But 
they are few and far between. The really brave 
man is the one who is always terrified, but who 
yet conquers his weakness and keeps his head 
in all circumstances. 

If the truth were known, it would probably 
be found that many rewards for valour have 
been won by men who in reality were so scared 
that they hardly knew what they were doing. 

There were thrilling moments during the siege 
of Port Arthur m the Russo-Japanese War, the 
first inlJ^Vift'^T^^? Wrf GH R5A | , -|:orrespoiide n t . 



I shall never forget the assault of the Japanese 
on the Fort of Nirusan, one of the main defences 
of the Eastern sector during this general attack 
made on November 26th, 1904. The siege of 
Bort Arthur was far and away the finest spectacle 
of war I have ever witnessed, as, owing to the 
peculiar configuration of the ground, you could 
see everything that passed at the closest possible 
range. I myself watched all these great attacks 
from trenches at a distance of three hundred 
yards, where glasses were not even required. 
On this occasion the Japanese had been told that 
they must take Port Arthur at all costs. They 
were nerved up to the highest possible pitch of 
enthusiasm because it was the Emperor's birth- 
day, and General Nogi had told them they must 
make the Emperor a birthday present of the 
fortress. Through the morning, the Russian 
forts had been subjected to a terrific bombard- 
ment from over six hundred guns and howitzers 
ol all calibres. Nirusan was the principal work 
to be assaulted. The Japanese had sapped their 
way right into the ditch, and now they had to 
climb the escarpment which was over forty feet 
high. They had tried to make a causeway by 
tilling up the ditch with sandbags, but this 
reached only half-way to the top, and it was 
necessary to use scaling ladders. The excitement 
throughout the army was intense as the hour 
fixed for the attack drew near. Exactly to the 
minute the guns lengthened their fuses and the 
infantry rushed forward from the sap-heads, 
uttering tremendous shouts of " Banzi." The 
front ranks carried great bamboo scaling ladders 
and placed them in position. The bravest officers, 
sword in hand, then climbed to the top, followed 
by masses of men, so that you saw the scaling 
ladders black with figures like fly-papers in 
summer-time. The brave Siberian infantry 
holding Nirusan, warned by the lifting of the 
bombardment that the assault was due, left their 
bombproofs to meet the attack on the top of the 
escarpment. Then occurred one of the most 
extraordinary scenes I have ever witnessed in 
war. The Russians had huge forks on the end 
of long poles, and with these they pushed the 
ladders backwards, toppling the assaulters into 
the ditch beneath. Time and time again the 
Japanese rushed forward only to be hurled into 
the ditch, which was choked with hundreds of 
dead, wounded, and uninjured men. Those who 
were not hurt kept on making fresh attempts, 
and the Russians, to check the rush, poured 
quantities of oil on to the mass below and then 
set the lot on fire with hand grenades. Great 
clouds of black smoke obscured the scene, and 
from this inferno arose the terrible cries of 
hundreds of tormented men who were slowly 
burning to death. A horrible smell of burnt flesh 
was wafted back on the breeze. 

The Japanese, in spite of their enormous losses, 
refused to break off the engagement, and time 
and time again hurled themselves to certain 
death. Finally, by sheer weight of numbers, 
they won the top ol the escarpment, and held on 
there, but were unable to advance. In fact, they 
found their way blocked by barbed wire, and a 
terrible lire irom the machine guns, from the 

concrete barrack at the back. Over and over 
again small parties rushed forward, only to be 
shot down. At five o'clock the final tragedy was 
enacted. The Russians, reinforced from the rear, 
made a counter-attack, and we witnessed a 
terrible fight with bayonets and clubbed rifles 
on the top of the escarpment. The combatants 
were so hopelessly intermingled that neither 
of them dared fire. The two lines struggled and 
swayed to and fro. The Japanese tried desper- 
ately to hold on, but were literally pushed off the 
fort into the ditch. Their whole line suddenly 
gave way and rolled down the escarpment into 
the fosse below, which was already choked with 
dead. At six o'clock the fight was over. Every- 
where the assault had failed. Twenty-six thou- 
sand men fell on that fateful afternoon in trying 
to present their Emperor with a birthday girt 
of Port Arthur. 

Then we settled down to siege operations, 
and the Japanese engineers proceeded to dig 
their way under the Russian forts and to place 
tons of explosives in position. A fight in the open 
is bad enough, but this wholesale slaughter of 
hundreds of men by mines 'always seems to me 
infinitely more horrible. 

I shall never forget the destruction of the 
North Keikwansan Fort on December 18th, 1914. 
It was mid- winter, and the ground was frozen 
hard and covered with deep snow. Winter in 
Manchuria is no joke, and you hardly ventured 
out of doors unless it was absolutely essential. 
I lived in a wretched hut in a miserable Chinese 
village, and at nights slept on a brick stove with 
a fire made of maize stalks blazing underneath 
me. On the evening of December 17th I was 
sitting by my fire trying to keep warm, when 
there came a knock at the door, and a staff 
officer entered and handed me a letter, which 
read as follows : — 

" General Baron Nogi presents his compli- 
ments, and wishes to say that if it would interest 
you to see the Keikwansan Fort blown up, he 
will have the honour to blow it up at 10 a.m. 
to-morrow morning, and would advise you to be 
at your place at that time." 

This was the laconic announcement of an 
action which would mean the destruction of 
hundreds of brave men sleeping in total ignorance 
of their impending fate in the doomed fort. 
But such is war. 

On the following morning I was up early, and 
made my way to my chosen observation post. 
The day was beautifully fine and clear. The news 
seemed to have become known, and thousands 
of Japanese had come from the lines of com- 
munication to have a look at this spectaci :* ^ 
event. The sap-heads leading ^p the fort v 
bright with glistening bayonets, showing wl 
the assaulting parties were gathered to spr 
on the doomed position. The fort, covered w 
its white mantle, looked as if it would rem 
the same until the day of judgment, and 1 
no power of man could injure it. That last h 
hour between nine-thirty and ten was passec 
breathless excitement. Hundreds took out t 1 
watches and. counted 1iie seconds pass, 
wonikredptfcjtiie ^ngiBpers^xuld be punc* 



From a Fhut»ffritj}h, 

or if they would allow the wretches, so ignorant 
of their impending fate, an extra five minutes 
of life. Von felt you would like to cry out and 
warn the garrison to get away in time. But 
there was no warning and no extra five minutes. 
Punctual to the second the train was fired, a 
dense cloud of black smoke at once obscured the 
fort, folio vved by a dull heavy roar. Two other 
explosions followed within a few seconds. High 
above the smoke you saw shapeless masses of 
masonry, great wooden beams, stones, rubbish, 
and human forms blown in all directions. When 
the smoke cleared a huge V-shapcd cavity was 
disclosed in the escarpment. 

Then there came a delay, for the Japanese 
infantry did not charge. No one knew why. 
The reason was this, as we learnt afterwards. 
The first explosion blew partly outwards into the 
sap-heads, and killed some fifty of the assaulting 
column, This delayed the attack, which had to 
be reorganized. Ten minutes later the whole 
brigade swept through the breach, uttering 
terrible shouts of " Ban u ! JJ Five hundred of 
the garrison were killed outright by the explosion, 

I the remainder took shelter in the concrete 
1 "rack at the back. Here for twenty-four houry 
I y held out before the last of them was 
1 rqneted by the Mikado's infuriated soldiers. 
\ j the following day I visited the fort. It was 
i "nere shambles. 

have had some very exciting times fighting 
i Morocco with the French' and Spanish armies. 
1 tfcir native warfare there is none of the long- 
t awn-out horror of a great European conflict. 
1 2 fighting is in the open, there are no trenches 
a I few guns. It is quite dangerous enough for 

any ordinary person, but you do get a run foe 
your money, and there is a certain appealing 
element of sport about it. 

I was with the French Army under General 
Drude when they occupied Casablanca, which 
started the great Morocco embroglio, from which 
hour the present European War became in- 
evitable. For some weeks, whilst awaiting 
reinforcements, we were besieged in the town by 
thousands of Moors. The latter are brave fighters, 
and the French have raised some splendid material 
from their new possessions. But at this time the 
Moor loved to fight on horseback and to fire from 
the saddle. This made his shooting indifferent,, 
but added to the picturcsqueness of the scene. 
I have seen thousands of them charge down on 
the town to within a few hundred yards of the 
French lines, and then wheel to the right and left, 
firing from the saddle as they dashed across 
our front. On these occasions they were a wonder- 
ful target for the French " seventy- fives/* which 
played sad havoc in their white- robed ranks. 
So they abandoned these expensive tactics, and 
waited to cut off small detachments engaged in 
reconnaissance outside the town. I remember 
one very exciting afternoon's work, For some 
time the Moors had apparently disappeared from 
the neighbourhood of Casablanca, and a small 
force t consisting of two hundred men of the 
famous Foreign Legion and two guns, set out to 
make a reconnaissance, the whole detachment 
under Colonel Prevost. a friend of mine, who 
invited me to go with him. We marched some five 
mites wit ho til seeing the enemy, except for one 
or two small patrols, who immediately fled at 
our apr^^ft^K^TiV^aMK^iMJas far as was 

*3 6 


considered prudent, we were about to return, 
when a sharp fire was opened from some bushes * 
« a few hundred yards away. The guns were turned 
on this party, but almost immediately the horses 
were shot, and thousands of the enemy's white- 
robed horsemen appeared from every point of the 
compass, having risen from the ground as if by 

Our little party abandoned the now useless 
guns and formed a square, each man lying down 
behind what cover he could find. It was calcu- 
lated that we were surrounded by at least five 
thousand horsemen, some armed with modern 
rifles, others wi£h old flintlocks, others with 
swords and spears. The firing was heavy, and 
we suffered many casualties. The Foreign 
Legion, however, fought with splendid coolness. 
The men lay there firing, joking with one another 
and shouting out insulting remarks to the foe. 
Old Prevost, who was a very big fat man and 
as brave as a lion, stood in the centre of the 
square encouraging his men. Suddenly the whole 
of the horsemen charged down upon our little 
band. This was one of the most exciting 
moments I have ever known, because if they 
really charged home, it would be all up with us. 
But we knew from previous experience that this 
is not the Moorish habit. On they came at a 
furious gallop, shouting and yelling and firing 
their rifles. We began to think it was all up 
with us. The men of the Legion redoubled their 
fire, and for the first time were told to use their 
magazines. It began to lpok very black for us, 
for the leading horsemen came to within two 
hundred and fifty yards before their courage 
failed. Then they swept across our front, firing 
wildly, and we knew we were saved. 

The Moors kept up the fight for some time 
longer, and our small force had over fifty 
casualties out of two hundred and all the horses 
shot before we were relieved by an entire brigade 
from Casablanca. Two days later the gallant 
Prevost was shot dead by a Moorish sniper while 
I was talking to him, and now lies buried at 

These native wars are full of incidents of this 
sort, but I have no space to relate more than this 
incident, the extraordinary escape of two friends 
of mine, Colonel Lewis, the correspondent of the 
Times, and Captain Granville Fortescue, late 
of the United States Army, during the Spanish 
campaign against the Riffian tribes at Melilla 
in 1909. These Riffians are terrible fighters, and 
the Spanish have never yet subdued them. In 
the gorge of the sinister mountain of Gourgu 
they cut off and destroyed an entire Spanish 
brigade under the unfortunate General Pintos, 
who was cut to pieces at the head of his men. 
Fortunate were those who were killed outright, 
for these savages took the wounded, bound their 
arms, placed them against rocks, and finished 
them off by throwing stones at their heads. 
When we reconquered the ground the sight was 
horrible. Hundreds of men lay there with 
their arms bound and their heads smashed 
to pulp. 

I was the fortunate possessor of three good 
horses at Melilla, and on the morning of the big 

fight with the Bensickar tribe I rode one myself 
and lent the other two to Lewis and Fortescue. 
Just as we left camp I said : " If you get my 
horses killed, you will have to pay for them/' 
and named a price for each. We parted when 
the attack commenced, as I chose to follow the 
right wing, while they accompanied the left. 
We had some very stiff fighting and a notable 
cavalry charge before winning the position. 
Later in the day I met my two friends on foot. 
" Where are my horses ? " I asked. " Both 
dead," they replied. This was cheering news. 

, It appears they had ridden forward too quickly 
and had outstripped the Spanish advance. Then 
they came to a stone kraal, and dismounted to 
get a better view of the field. About sixty Riffians 

' crept up from the far side and poured in a volley 
at less than one hundred yards. Both horses 
were shot dead, but neither Lewis nor Fortescue 
were hit. They bolted like scared rabbits towards 
the advancing Spanish infantry, who, mistaking 
them for the enemy, opened up a furious fire. 
Fortescue lay down among some rocks, but Lewis 
ran right through the Spanish line. Yet neither 
was touched by friend or foe. Such is luck ! 

I never had such a crowded week of varied 
adventures as I did in the first Balkan War when 
with the Turkish army in Thrace during the 
great battle and rout of Lule Burgas. I had 
reached that, town with extreme difficulty, and 
was without food and without horses. The con- 
fusion in the Turkish army was indescribable. 
No one knew if the enemy was advancing, 'or 
whether the Turkish Commander - in - Chief, 
Abdullah Pasha, intended to hold bis positions. 
There was no wireless, no telegraph, and no 
telephone, whilst aeroplanes were only in their 
infancy, and had not yet reached the Balkans. 
I found the town occupied by Turkish cavalry 
under Sali Pasha, and tried to borrow a horse 
from them. Finally, the Mayor produced a 
wretched old screw and a still worse saddle. 
On the following morning I went to call on Sali 
Pasha, and found him drinking coffee in the old 
Han or inn. Suddenly it was announced that 
the enemy were advancing. There are some low 
wooded hills to the west of the town, but these 
had not been occupied. Sali Pasha dashed out 
of the town, with his cavalry following pell-mell, 
while I tried to keep up with them on my old 
screw. It was too late to save the situation. 
Already we could see the enemy silhouetted 
against the skyline 6f these low hills only a mile 
from the gates of Lule Burgas. Masses more 
shortly appeared, and at once commenced to 
advance. The Bulgarian infantry are excellent 
in attacking. The men are extremely brave and 
advance with great speed. The whole of the 
Turkish cavalry and some infantry were quickly 
driven in, and made for the shelter of the town 
under a heavy fire. I was swept along in the 
general confusion. The Turks having gained 
the cover of the houses then rallied and opened 
a heavy fire on the advancing enemy, which 
checked their advance for a short time. A staff 
officer dashed up shouting, " Everyone must 
clear out of Ub.e ii;own and make for the high 
ground behind, where yon will find our infantry 


entrenched. The town cannot long be held* 
Only the rear-guard can remain/' 

At these ominous words the panic r amongst 
the townspeople became indescribable. These 
on fortunate wretches, old men, women, children, 
and refugees from other villages, had no idea that 
the enemy was upon them. The Bulgarians 
enjoyed a reputation second to none for com- 
mitting horrible atrocities on the civilian popu- 
lation of districts they conquered, and it became 
the obsession of all, even the oldest and most 
infirm, to get away. There is h no more extra- 
ordinary or sadder sight in the world than to see 
the entire population of a panic -stricken city 
endeavouring to escape. Some flee immediately 

which I had left in the town -hall, including my 
boots, and escaped in a pair of slippers. Fortu* 
nately the fleeing mob found shelter behind the 
Turkish army, which was entrenched on the 
lulls to the east. This was the inauspicious 
commencement of the battle of Lule Burgas* 
which lasted lor the next three days, and ended 
in the complete defeat of the Turks, who were 
starved out, and obliged to abandon all their 

The spectacle of a routed army, with its 
organization destroyed and all discipline at an 
end, is not a sight you care to see twice* The 
flight of the Turks from the fields of Lule Burgas 
to the lines of Cataldja, one hundred and forty 



Phuta b§ " Dtfii-.- Nirrur." 

without stopping to think, others are so upset 
at leaving their home that they cannot make 
up their minds whether to leave their worldly 
possessions, and delay too long. Yet others 
c- f immense toads of household goods with 
ti i which they are obliged to abandon on the 
n . t A few make no effort to escape, and sit 
lie steps of their houses paralyzed by the 
u Tited scene, 

ried to make my way slowly to the rear, 
b ./as dragged into- a vortex of men, women, 
d Ircn. carta, stray soldiers, unarmed men and 
*« nded, all hastening to escape from the enemy's 
si pnel, which, had commenced to burst over 
tl town from the hills behind. The confusion 
U — fiiL I lost my entire worldly possessions, 

miles away, will never be forgotten by those who 
took part in it. Not a unit kept its formation, 
for „the men were starving and spread over the 
country searching every village and township 
for food. But Thrace had already been swept 
bare* Had the Bulgarian cavalry followed up 
their victory they could have captured the whole 
army. Mingled with the flying troops were 
thousands of refugees, men, women, and cliildrcn, 
endeavouring to escape with their worldly goods 
packed into old carts or on mules or horses. 
Thousands died from sheer weakness and starva- 
tion, thousands more fell into the hands of the 
enemy, thousands reached the lines of Cataldja, 
and refusing to rallv there, never stopped until 
they hatltt^£^Wa^b^CHrgAt^ a broke out 



amongst this unhappy army, and twenty thou- 
sand were swept away in ten days. No people, 
except the Turks, could have survived such an 
accumulation of disasters. Every eye-witness on 
the spot cabled home that the " days of the 
Turk in Europe are numbered," or words to that 

Less than five years ago this terrible tragedy 
was enacted. To-day the Turks are fighting with 
all their old-time courage in Armenia, in Meso- 
potamia, in Palestine, and in Thrace, and have 
forced us to abandon GallipoU. This is the 
change that German discipline and organization 
has brought about in five years. Yet we might 
have had this warlike race fighting on our side 
but for our ignorance, apathy, and short-sighted 
diplomacy. We who for centuries have been the 
traditional defenders of the Mohammedan race 
have forced the most virile of its branches into 
the arms of the Hun. 

Exciting incidents, horrible scenes, and appall- 
ing catastrophes have become such mere common- 
places in the present world war that to select 
any which have made a paramount impression 
on the mind is no easy task. But to me the early 
days of the war, when the Allies were struggling 
against overwhelming odds and crushed by a con- 
centration of artillery fire to which they could 
make no adequate reply, and when so much hung 
in the balance, were of much greater interest 
than the present long-drawn-out hammer-and- 
tongs slaughter on the western front. It is now 
generally recognized that the most critical days 
of the war were those in the autumn of 1914. when 
the new German armies were endeavouring to 
" bullock " their way through to Calais and to 
cut off the Allies from the Channel. 

Ample justice has been done to the glorious 
role played by Sir John French's army during 
those critical days, and to my mind no page in 
our history can compare with the dying struggle 
of our old regular army before Ypres and on the 
Yser. But it must not be forgotten that before 
the bulk of the German armies turned south 
against our extenuated Une, for a week they had 
made a desperate attempt to break through the 
Belgium line between Nieuport and Dixmude. 
The heroic stand made by the exhausted Belgian 
Army throughout that critical week is apt to be 
obscured by the still more Homeric struggle which 
followed. Yet, had the unsupported Belgian Army 
given way, the enemy would have reached Calais, 
and the position of our troops coming piecemeal 

from the Aisne would have been rendered pre- 
carious in the extreme. For a week the fighting 
had been of the most desperate nature, and the , 
issue constantly hung in the balance. The climax 
was reached at dusk on the evening of October 
2 1st, when the Germans made their final great 
attack on Dixmude, hoping to capture the town 
and pierce the Belgian line. The artillery fire was 
incessant. Dixmude was burning fiercely, and 
the French supports, which had been hastily 
sent up by Joffre, could not get up for some time, 
as it was impossible to pass through Dixmude 
owing to the shell-fire and burning buildings. 
Hundreds of wounded came crawling or limping 
back from the trenches, each with a different 
tale. Some said the Belgians were holding their 
own. Others that it was all over, and that in a few 
minutes the Germans would have possession of 
the town. The suspense was frightful, waiting 
there on the outskirts of Dixmude, not knowing 
whether the line would bold or whether it would 
break, letting through masses of bloodthirsty 
Huns to turn the countryside into a second 
Lou vain. 

Suddenly the German artillery fire ceased for 
a few minutes, and we heard through the gather- 
ing darkness the hoarse shouts and yells of. the 
German infantry charging with the bayonet. 
This was the crisis. The cheers were met by a 
redoubled rifle fire, and the terrible " pat-pat- 
pat " of the machine guns. The Belgian batteries 
fired in salvoes, the shells all bursting simul- 
taneously in groups of red flame over the 
.advancing infantry. The cheers of the attackers 
dipd away under this deluge of lead, counter 
cheers arose from the trenches, and the German 
field batteries and "Jack Johnsons " -recom- 
menced their shelling. 

It was now 7 p.m. and quite dark. The scene 
was majestic in the extreme. Dixmude was a red 
furnace. The flames shot upwards, showing 
clouds of white smoke above. St. Jacques, farther 
south, was a smaller furnace. All along the line 
the shells were no longer bursting in clouds o\ 
white and black smoke. All had put on their 
blood-red mantles. Close at hand everything 
was bathed in inky darkness ; farther off the 
towns and villages showed- up clearer than they 
had done during the day. It was the end of the 
great attempt to break the Belgian line. The 
road to Calais had been closed. The disgruntled 
Hun turned south to meet k worse disaster against 
the British Une. 

by Google 

Original from 

Dog-Leg Rapids. 


Illustrated l>y Dudley Tennant. 

OUNG JOE was a trapper. 
His father, Old Joe, whose 
memory is still green up and 
down the river, was a trapper 
before him. Father and son 
were accounted** lucky." But 
Old Joe spent his money, 
whereas Young Joe saved nearly every dollar 
he made. Old Joe had been " one of the 
boys"; Young Joe wore the blue ribbon of 
a stainless and abstemious life. 

From this brief statement of fact it may 
be inferred that Young Joe's solemn declara- 
tion that he meant tfi " quit the woods and git 
married " aroused more excitement amongst 
the girls than it did amongst the boys of 

" He won't git no girl/' said one of the 
A sage answered the rash prophet : — 
44 That is whar you show yer cussed igner- 
unce of females. They perfer these quiet, 
mealy-mouthed fellers every time. I reckon 
it ter be the motherin' instinct. Some mighty 
nice purty girl'll up an' marry Young Joe, 
jest because he looks an' acts as if he was 
Mary's little lamb." 

" Wal, mebbe some peaky-faced, cow- 
hocked, flat-chested schoolmarm'll take pity 
on him." 

u My son — yer way off agen. Young Joe'll 
pick a peach." 

Very soon it became known that Young 
Jo* *vas courting Euphemia Biddle, only child 
of r osiah Biddle, ex-timber-cruiser and 
ietor of the Biddle House, Dog-leg, 

audacity of this courtship simply con- 
ued the stalwart lumbermen of Dog-leg. 
imonially considered, Pheenie was the 
•packet of the township — pretty, petite, 
pert. Mr. Biddle regarded her, very 
£rly, as the apple of his eye. And, in 
illness of time, the Biddle House and 




other valuable property would belong to 

She had many suitors, but we are concerned 
in this narrative with two : Young Joe and 
Shorty Sissons, called " Shorty " because he 
was six foot two in his stockings and a big 
bull of a man. Young Joe may be envisaged 
as his antithesis in all things. 

At first Shorty treated the affair from a 
humorous point of view. 

" Young Joe," he remarked, " is after a 
fine pelt. I'd jest as lief he did monkey 
around Pheenie, because he'll keep likelier 
fellers off the grass. If he gets het up any, 
I'll hev to talk to Young Joe." 

" He ain't no talker, anyway," said a friend. 

This was true. # Young Joe, like most 
trappers, had the great gift of silence. For 
many months each year he tended his traps 
alone. When he paddled down river into the 
haunts of men, with his pelts piled high in 
the stern of the canoe, he would nod his head 
in passing and £mile. After the sale of his 
pelts, when accosted cheerily in the market- 
place by would-be burners of another's oil, 
he would smile as before and go his way— -to 
the local bank. Speaking ornithologically, 
with a flying reference to migrating birds, he 
may be said to have had a sense of direction. 
He held waril)*aloof from crowds. 

His wonderful gift of silence may have 
attracted Pheenie, who could wag a 
lively tongue. She became aware of his 
long, penetrating glances. When she asked, 
coquettishly, 4< What you think about all 
the time ? " he replied, curtly, " You." 

The monosyllable sank deep into Pheenie's 
heart. She divined somehow that Shorty's 
thoughts were concentrated upon Mr. Sissons, 
As much, and more, could be said of his talk. 
Shorty, according to himself, had done great 
deeds on a score of rivers, and was now boss 
of the biggest logging camp in the county. 
He assured her that he could lick his weight 

Copyright, 1917, by Horace Annesley Vachell. 



in wild cats, and Pheenie never doubted it. 
Whenever she looked at this big, black moun- 
tain of a man she felt absurdly small and 
frail. She was aware that he dominated her, 
that he regarded her as his for the asking, and 
that her father — just such another giant — 
approved the match. Mr. Biddle spoke 
derisively of Young Joe. 

" Why does he come around ? " he asked 

" You ask him," suggested Pheenie. • 

" Is he huntin' trouble with Shorty ? " 

" I reckon you mean that Mr. Sissons'Il 
make trouble with a man half his size." 

" Young Joe ain't a man — not what I call 
a man." 

" He don't act like some men. He ain't 
everlastin'ly braggin' 'bout what he kin do ; 
he ain't the rip-roaringest male in creation. 
I'll own up that what he doesn't say interests 
me more'n Mr. Sissons' remarks. He's gittin' 
the habit o' repeating himself." 

" Meanin' ? " 

" Jest that. I'm tired o' hearin' the same 
old tune." 

Mr. Biddle stared hard at his daughter. 
When he spoke he was almost inarticulate 
with surprise. 

" Say, Pheenie, you ain't gone back on 
Shorty, hev ye ? " 

" He fatigues me awful, that's all." 

" You don't want him around ? " 

"I do not." 

At this moment business summoned Mr. 
Biddle to his bar. He was so dazed that he 
handed out his own particular bottle of 
whisky instead of the special brand provided 
for ordinary customers. . 

He noticed Shorty sitting in a corner of the 
room, chewing and smoking a ten-cent cigar. 
Presently he joined him. Shorty began to 
eat his cigar faster than usual ; otherwise he 
made no sign. Mr. Biddle said, pleasantly : — 

" How you makin' it, Shorty ? " 

Shorty removed what was left of the cigar 
from his large mouth and expectorated freely. 

" I'm snowed in," he replied. Then he 
added, with invincible optimism, " Tem- 

Mr. Biddle remarked, casually: — 

" A bold game pays." 

" Not always. Not with all females. Some 
on 'em hates nice fresh meat and has an on- 
nateral hankerin' fer ice-cream. They kin be 
made to see the fullishness o' sech tastes, but 
it takes time to train 'em, and what worries 
me is — hev I the time ter spare ? " 

He gazed sorrowfully at Mr. Biddle, who 
said, firmly : — 

" I allow that ye hev." 

Shorty murmured, gloomily : — 

" I ain't huntin' trouble with Young Joe. 
I look over his head, an' to the right an* left 
of the leetle cuss when we happen together, 
but he's too small fer me to man-handle. 
Anyways, that's how I feel about Young Joe." 

" Sech feelin's does you credit." 

Shorty continued : — 

" It's up to you, as Pheenie's father, to 
try out Young Joe." 

" Up to mei " 

" In Pheenie's eyes, he's — IT, the biggest 
thing in Dog-leg. She sees him with the 
patent magnifyers o' female affection. If you 
could make Pheenie see Young Joe as he 
is, if you could hang him up ter dry on 
yer clothes-line as a warnin' to all chicken- 
livered dwarfs an' dudes ter keep outer 
yer home - pasture, I should be obligated 

" Chicken-livered r ' 

" You wasn't on to that ? Yes, sir, Young 
Joe ain't got no sand. He's a river-man, but 
you ask him to run yer rapids." 

" I will," said Mr. Biddle. 

The Dog-leg Rapids began just below Mr. 
Biddle's hotel, and might be adequately 
described in toboggan terms as the Cresta 
Run of the river. The broad stream flowing 
placidly above the town here narrowed be- 
tween high banks and then bbiled downwards 
in a succession of cascades beautiful to behold 
but dangerous to navigate, because the river 
twisted like a writhing snake. A nasty, ugly 
bit of water, where in earlier days many a 
man had met his death. 

Mr. Biddle spoke to Young Joe that same 
evening. He found the trapper alone with 
Pheenie in the parlour, and the lights were 
burning low. The father, however, could sec 
plainly that his daughter's eyes were shining, 
and upon the impassive face of the trapper 
lurked the ghost of a smile. 

Young Joe said, quietly : — 

" Mr. Biddle, Pheenie. and I have fixed 
things to git married, if you've no objection." 

" You calcilate to take Pheenie on yer 
trips ? " - 

" I calcilate to buy a half-interest in a small 
store that's likelv to grow bigger." 

" Here in Dogleg ? " 

" Ye P-" 

Mr. Biddle looked unhappy. Pheenie, so 

to speak, was more than a daughter. Out- 
side of the bar, she " ran " the hotel, reigning 
supreme in kitchen and dining-room. She 
earned gjod money that her father kept in 
hij; own possession. He would have affirmed 



— to do him justice — that he was " saving " 
many dollars for his only child. Under the 
softening influence of his own brand of whisky 
he had said as much many times. He could 
hardly envisage life without Pheenie. He 
remarked, not too discreetly : — 

14 Thar's others wants Pheenie, beside you." 

" I know it. But Pheenie wants me." 

u Yes," murmured Pheenie. 

Mr. Biddle then said, solemnly : — 

" This yere is a wild country, and it takes 
a man as is a man to look after a woman." 

Young Joe remained silent ; Pheenie 
glanced at him, and took up the cudgels. 

u Air you hintin' that my Joe ain't a 
man ? " 

" He ain't bin tried, Pheenie." 

u Mr. Shorty Sissons has, an' convicted 
too ! " 

This was the unhappy truth, and Mr. Biddle 
knew it. * Shorty, in a too hot youth, had 
served a term in the State penitentiary for 
manslaughter. But the fact that he was quick 
with his gun was not reckoned a disability in 
lumber-camps. Mr. Biddle knew, moreover, 
that Young Joe walked the green earth 
unarmed and defenceless. To draw a pistol 
on him and use it meant murder — in the 
first degree. The blustering Shorty was well 
aware of this. Young Joe said, hesitatingly : — 

" Do you want ter try me, Mr. Biddle ? " 

" Yes, young man, I do. You've bin up 
an' down our river considable, but I've yet 
to learn that you've run Dog-leg Rapids. It 
takes sand ter do that." 

Y'oung Joe answered, politely : — 

"I aim ter take no onnecessary chances. 
My father used to run Dog-leg because he had 
to. 'Twasn't a portage in his days." 

M Thet's so. But the boys around these 
parts run Dog-leg fer fun." 

44 I see. You want me to risk my life — fer 
fun ? " 

44 No — fer Pheenie. I ain't stuck on yer 
shape, but Pheenie is." 

" If I run Dog-leg, you give me Pheenie ? " 

" I ain't his ter give, Joe. Don't you be 
ffimflamxned into this foolishness. Shorty 
Sf ons put father on to this low-down play. 
It jest like him. It'd tickle him plum to 
d th ter see you drownding before his eyes. 
N r, don't you give that mountain o' flesh 
tl devilish satisfaction of attendin' yer 
h -al." 

ung Joe smiled at her, nodding his head. 
T u his mild blue eyes met the congested 
01 of Mr. Biddle. 

'm scared of Dog-leg," he admitted, 

IE nrviisly. 

Mr. Biddle snorted. 

" But I want Pheenie," continued Young 
Joe. " And I want her to be married ac- 
cordin' to Hoyle, from her father's house and 
with his blessin'. I ain't siskin' fer more'n 

" Wal, young feller, if you want the girl, 
you know what ter do." 

" Yep—and I'll do it." 

Mr. Biddle frowned. 

" When ? " 

" To-morrer." 

Pheenie jumped up. Her eyes were spark- 
ling ; her cheeks glowed. Young Joe gazed 
at her in speechless admiration. She spoke 
curtly to her sire. 

" You mean this ? " Mr. Biddle nodded, 
portentously. " Yer a party to this put-up 
job ? " He made no reply. The girl waited 
a moment ; then she said, grimly : — 

" I take a hand in this game. If Joe runs 
Dog-leg he must take me with him. Kin 
you swim, Jodie ? " 

" Yep." 

" That's fine ! I never learnt swimmin'. 
Mebbe, you'll save my life. I'd love to hev 
you do it." 

Let it be stated here that Mr. Biddle, 
according to his lights', loved Pheenie. Let it 
be added that he had run Dog-leg — once. 
More, he knew that Pheenie was quite as 
obstinate as himself. These reflections passed 
swiftly through his brain as he stared and 
glared at his daughter's pretty face. Looking 
at that face, he remembered that two years 
before he had helped to drag ashore what was 
left of a young man who had tried to run 
Dog-leg — and failed. He said, thickly : — 

" I forbid that, child ! " 

Pheenie laughed derisively. 

" You forbid your daughter to run risks 
'which you ask another man's son ter do — 
fer fun ? " 

" Yer a woman ; he's a man." 

" \ r es, I'm a woman, and proud of it, 
because he's my man. You'd better back 
down, father ; mebbe a harder job fer you 
than runnin' Dog-leg, but — if ye don't, if you 
stand in with this big, blasphemin', murderin' 
scallywag, whom I hate and despise, I stand 
in, too, with my Joe." 

Mr. Biddle rose to his feet. It will never 
be known whether or not he believed his 
daughter to be bluffing. He said, with 
finality : — 

" You stand in— and be hanged to ye ! " 

Having played what he deemed to be a 
trump card Mr. Buddie retired majestically 




Pheenie took tactical advantage of her sire's 
retreat by occupying a frontal position on 
Young Joe's knee. With her arms about his 
neck and her cheek against his, she murmured, 
persuasively : — 

" Joe, dear, let's skin outer this. We kin 
be married to-morrer morning." 

Joe squeezed her to him. For a small man 
he had a very satisfying grip. But he re-, 
mained, as usual, almost exasperatingly silent. 

" What you say, Jodie ? " 

At that Young Joe laughed, and his laugh 
was pleasant to hear. Pheenie, pondering 
many things in her heart, noted the genuine 
mirth of her lover's laughter. Cowards, she 
decided instantly, do not laugh at such 

41 I tole a whoppin' lie jest now," said Joe. 

" Mercy ! " 

" I ain't scared any of Dog-leg." 

" What ? " 

" I run Dog-leg — fer fun — two seasons 

" You never told me." 

" Pheenie, it was this way. I hated to 
brag about it, even to you. And with the 
boys it was more so. See ? " 

" I see. Oh, Joe, I do love you ! You're 
my own little man ! " 

Young Joe continued, thoughtfully : — 

" Dog-leg, to a river-man as knows his busi- 
ness, ain't what it's cracked up ter be. That 
young feller yer dad snaked out o' the rocks 
was plum full o' whisky afore he started. I 
kin take you down, Pheenie, and I aim ter 
do it with the hull town a-lookin' on. Then 
we'll be married in style, accordin' to Hoyle." 

" I ain't scared," declared Pheenie. 

" Honest ! I'd be scared stiff if I thought 
you was. Pheenie, thar's another thing. 
Shorty brags that he's run Dog-leg, but he's 
a liar, too." 

" Sakes ! How you know that ? " 

" Wal — I heard him tell how he done it. 
That was enough fer me. He was just repeat- 
in' what some other feller had told him, and 
he got mixed in the details. When me and 
you's run Dog-leg, I calcilate to hev some fun 
with Mister Shorty Sissons." 

Pheenie giggled. 

Next morning the town heard part of the 
truth, enough to excite the citizens of each 
sex. Pheenie's resolution to share risks with 
the man of her choice brought many thirsty 
souls to Mr. Biddle's bar. To, all and sundry 
Mr. Biddle imparted the gilt-edged informa- 
tion that, in his opinion, Young Joe would 
back down at the last minute. Shorty offered 
to bet many dollars upon this issue. His 

bets were taken by a quiet trapper who knew 
Young Joe, and may have been acting for 
him. Young Joe was seen on the river in his 
own canoe, testing the toughness of a new pole. 
The event — if it took place — was publicly 
announced as a midday entertainment. At 
noon punctually Young Joe and Pheenie would 
embark in the canoe. 

At half-past eleven Mr. Biddle weakened. 
Love for an only child triumphed over the 
coagulated obstinacy of a lifetime. He took 
Pheenie aside and said, testily : — 

" You want Young Joe and, by Jing ! you 
kin hev him." 

" I want more'n Joe." 

" Meanin' ? " 

" I'm marryin' a man, and I want the hull 
world ter know it." 

" You'll git drownded — sure ! " 

" Mebbe. It's this a-way, father. I'd 
sooner drown with Joe than live with any 
other man." / 

" Includin' me ? " 

" Yes— includin' you." 

" You perfer that? peaky- faced leette'nmt 
to— me ? " 

" I do — for a stone-cold fact." 

" He'll back down." 

" If you was dead sure o' that, you'd (eel 
a heap better'n ye're lookin'. To make yer 
mind easier I'll tell ye this. Joe kin do it, 
and he will do it, and I want to do it with 
him. Seein' as business is so "brisk this 
morning, I reckon you'd better go back to 
the bar. One more pointer. Mr. Sissons is a 
particular friend of yours. See to it that he 
don't swaller too much whisky before noon " 

" Why ? " 

" Fer reasons which I'm not at liberty ter 

Mr. Biddle returned to the bar, stupefied 
and quite incapable of putting his thoughts 
into words. But he believed (and hoped) 
with an ever-increasing conviction that Young 
Joe's liver would be publicly displayed white 
as its owner's blameless life. 

At noon Pheenie and Joe stepped into the 
canoe. Pheenie, smiling pleasantly, sat down 
in the stem with her lover's earnest injunction 
" not to budge." They slid out into the 
stream. The crowd had collected farther 
down at the worst Dog-leg turn. To compare 
once more these rapids with the famous 
Cresta Run at St. Moritz, it will be elucidating 
to speak of this particular twist in the river 
as " Shuttlecock." " Battle'dore " an easier 
turn, was higher up. Below both lay a narrow 
passage, with fanged rocks on each side. 
Below die passage again, in another bend of 




the river, was the whirlpool with its dangerous 
undertow. From the coign of vantage selected 
by the crowd a good view of these fouF<langer- 
spots could be obtained. 

But those who had assembled in the expecta- 
tion of witnessing either a ridiculous fiasco or 
a bad accident were sadly disappointed. 
Young Joe gave a flawless performance. 

When he stepped ashore , to be acclaimed with 
ringing cheers, there may have been three 
pints of water in his canoe — n>t more. In- 
deed, the feat seemed so easy that the many 
onlookers who were not river-men decided 
hastily that the perils of Dog-leg had i)een 
grossly overrated. Mr. Middle shook hands 
with Young Joe, and said, pontifically : — 
£L She's yours, my son/' 
At this moment Shorty approached Young 
Joe j and exclaimed : — 

" I couldn't hev done it slicker myself." 

Young Joe , had he teen as: ingenuous and 

innocent as he appeared, might have acclaimed 

in this speech some sportsmanlike feeling. He 

recognized, instead^ what is called in the West 

a " gallery play." He knew, in every fibre 

of his small, neat body, that this giant had 

de li be rat e 1 y plotted 

to kill him. I Jut he 

smiled as he replied , 

not loudly but very 

clearly : — 

44 Will you do itj 
Shorty ? " 
(i How's that ? " 
M Will you run Dog* 

Pheenie answered for 
the big fellow : — • 
u No— he won't ! ss 
The crowd formed a 
i in le round tbese three* 





For a moment the silence became tense. Then 
Pheenie laughed. 

Shorty may have been half-drunk, but he 
grasped the sense of the situation. F J o refuse 
this challenge after Pheenie's laugh meant a 
headlong fall from a pinnacle of conrcit and 

He said, hoarsely, " Q* course 1*11 do It." 

li When ? " asked Pheenie, 

" Right now/' 

The fickle crowd applauded. The tension 
related. To any- 
body with Shorty's 
experience the 
running of Dog-leg 
was a ha'penny 
matter. The 
river -men began 
to chaff the big 
fellow. What girl 
would he ask to 
share his joy- 
ride? And so 
forth, Young Joe, 
however, with the 
keen eye. of a 
trapper, marked 
signs which es- 
caped the crowd — 
the shifty glance, 
the pendulous 
lower lip, the 
11 hunted Js expres- 
sion, He said ? 
quietly :'- — 


" Right now," 
repeated Mr. 

He strode off, 
followed by half- 
a-dozen friends. 
The crowd moved 
s 1 o w 1 y back to 
the bluff crown- 
ing the rapids, 
But Pheenie and 
Joe remained near 
the landing -place, 
just below the 
whirl pooh 

"I'm kinder 
sorry/' said Joe. 

"I ain't;' 1 said 
Pheenie, fiercely. 

Those on the 
bluff described 
more or less 

adequately what followed. A canoe glided 
swiftly into " Battledore." Mere gravitation 
carried it safely to the edge of " Shuttlecock." 
Uut here, where the river turned sharply, 
one — only one — firm shove of the pole was 
necessary, where a rock starkly rose out of 
mid-channel* And here— according to the 
testimony of experts— Shorty made his first 
blunder. He pushed too hard against the 
rock. The canoe raced into " Shuttlecock ?« 
slightly aslant instead of straight. Mere 


WI^YftfPWfllffAtf 1 






balance, bted by long experience, averted 
disaster , but the canoe was rocking badly as 
it sped towards the narrow passage. Shorty, 
stabbing with his pole, tried to steady his 
frail craft. The canoe plunged, like a run- 
iway horse. A synchronized gasp of dismay 
came from the spectators. Mr, Biddle re- 
marked, oracularly : — 

u He's a goner/ * 

It was obvious, even to the children present, 
that Shorty had lost his head. Mere luck, 
toper's luck, carried him through the narrows. 
The canoe must have graced the rocks a dozen 
times T but the volume of water held it on its 

The skirting of the whirlpool remained. 

By this time the canoe was in sight ol 
Young Joe and Pheenie. It no longer floated 
like a dogwood petal upon the maddened 
stream. Much water had been shipped, buoy- 
ancy had gone. Young Joe shouted ; — 

4 "Push for all yer worth ! " 

The roar of the falb was in Shorty's ears. 
If he heard ? he was too palsied by terror to act. 
He pushed feebly ; his pole slipped ; to the 
amazement of the beholders he fell overboard, 
and the canoe, relieved of his weight, danced 
blithely on upon a steadier keel. To use a 

phrase of the hunting-field, the boss of a big 
lumber-camp had "cut a voluntary/ 3. But 
friends and enemies knew that he was a 
powerful swimmer, well able to strike out 
boldly for the shore, 

Shorty made no such attempt. In falling 
overboard his head must have struck a rock* 
His huge body rose to the surface with no 
more initiative about it than a log* Young 
Joe slipped off his coat. 

4L No — ye don't ! " screamed Pheenie, clutch- 
ing at him* 

He said, sharply :— v 

M Wc done it." ' 

Then he tore himself loose and plunged into 
the river. 

If the crowd thirsted for excitement, that 
lust was likely to be gratified. Time became 
the essence of the situation. Could Young 
Joe reach Shorty before he was sucked into 
the whirlpool ? No human being could escape 
alive from the clutch of that, Joe shot across 
the stream, using the side-stroke. Shorty 
sank* Was he sucked under ? Joe dived for 

And then a great shout went up from the 
bluff* Joe appeared with his quarry; He 
turned upon his back, grasping Shorty's huge 

head with his 
hands, holding 
him between his 
knees* Inch by 
inch, skill and 
courage pre- 
vailed* Another 
shout, louder 
than tl^e first, 
died away 
amongst the tops 
of the spruces. 
Pheenie dis- 
covered that she 
was shedding the 
gladdest tears of 
her life. 

But later, when 
she whispered 
proudly, t£ Oli> 
Jodie , I'm ever 
so glad you saved 
him!" Y T oung 
Joe said, with a 
humour wasted 
upon his future 
wife, u Why, 
Pheenie, if I 
hadn't, could 
I hev collected 
them bets ? " 


Illustrated by G* E* Sturdy* 


will drop 

OUR pre- 
sumption, I? 
said the 
"is nothing less than 
appalling. Had I not 
seen and heard you 
daughter with my own eyes and 
I prefer to say no more. We 
the subject for ever. How a 
young fellow of your age. your lack ot all 
financial expectations, not to say vour junior 
11 But, George/' said Lady Topperly, 
" Be quiet ! " said the General ; " it is all 
your fault. Have 1 not said that the subject 
is not to be discussed further? As J was 
saying, Mr. Pleasant, I am astont|Jicd and 
shocked. When I asked your commanding 
officer — at Lady Topperlv's request — to bring 
some of his junior officers who were dancing 
men to the little charity affair in my gardens 
last night T T never dreamed of the lengths to 
which such impudence as yours would go- — - n 

'* But ; George M murmured Lady Top- 


"Be quiet ! " said the General M It is all 
your fault. It always is. You would give the 
entertainment, and these al fresco affairs, with 
bands and things on summer evenings— 
besides , as I remarked just now, we will drop 
the subject, I prefer it* As for you, Mr, 
Pleasant, I see you making an utter fiasco of 
your military career. There is too much 
frivolity among junior officers nowadays. It 
is thoroughly disgraceful, I have put my 
foot down about it, I tell you that* I will 
not have it in my command. You will read 

in Orders what I have said. Have you read 
my Orders thh morning ? " 

" No, sir," replied Edward Pleasant, 

The General's silence was so loud that Lady 
Topper ly commenced once more : — 

"But, George " 

11 Be quiet ! " said the General. ",E very- 
thing is your fault. WiU you leave the subject 
alone ? It has been a disgraceful affair 
throughout, I do not like your demeanour, 
Mr. Pleasant. It does you no credit • I have 
no more to say— no more at all. I sent foi 
you to express my strong disapproval, and 1 
have expressed it. Your audacity " 

V George," said Lady Topperly. il after all 
there are so few eligible—; — — " 

" Be quiet ! " said the General. u Can you 
consider Mr. Pleasant in any way eligible ? 
I never heard of such an idea ! And the way 
you pursue the point ! It is all your fault. 
As for Mary's dress last night — it was posi- 
tively two bead shoulder-straps and a pink 
petticoat. She is never to wear it again. I 
do not know what we are coming to. You 
may go, Hi. Pleasant." 

Edward Pleasant saluted and walked out. 
He caressed his wee moustache and blushed 

u Joyous I " he said, 

His motor- cycle, was propped on its stand 
outside the front door. He kicked the stand 
away with his brogued foot, whirled the 
engine round, and sailed away. There was a 
dear little red silk cushion on the carrier, but 
it seemed that Mary Topperly would perch 
thereon no more. 

The five miles of dusty suburban roads 
back to camp were like a long bad dream- 

copyd E hi, i9i7. by M4if-fl4^^TY OF MICHIGAN 

11 joyous , very ! " 



As he wheeled in and limply took the salutes 
of the sentries at the gates, Edward, who was 
the youngest and smallest subaltern in " M " 
Company of the 100th Oxfordshires, was 
acutely wretched. 

Entering the mess at tea-time, he was 
further reduced by the forlorn look of the 
place. A few brother-officers lay in chairs, 
staring into vacancy. Fewer still evinced a 
faint desire for tea. No gay parties were to 
he found in the length and breadth of the 
room ; no girlish voices brought happiness 
into M Company's mess on the day following 
the General's evening garden-party. 

Edward walked limply in and looked around 

" What is the. matter ? " he asked, vaguely. 

" Everything," replied the senior subaltern. 

" Hasn't anyone any visitors ? Aren't there 
any girls to-day ? " said Edward. 

No one answered him. 

44 What's this about Orders ? " said Edward, 
rather fearfully. 

A groan rolled through the groups. 
* "No ladies in mess," said the senior 

" No taking any girl out to any place of 
public amusement in town ! " 

" No appearance in any theatre or restaurant 
or tea-shop ! " 

Edward Pleasant viewed the future in 

" The General drew up the Orders ht mid- 
night, they say," said the senior subaltern, 
" and sent them over to be posted before 
lunch this morning." 

" Something had got his goat. Something 
he saw in the garden," added the company 
bombing officer. " Do you know anything 
about it?" 

Edward blushed pinkly and caressed his 
little moustache. 

" They'll have us faintin' in the streets for 
lack of nourishment," said he. 

A hollow laugh was raised with difficulty 
around him. 

" Don't get the wind up," said the senior 
subaltern ; " you needn't worry about that. 
It's all provided for. The General has begged 

1 loan of the British Museum for the officers 
the 100th Divison ! " 

The bombing officer added : " Tea and 

k ffee to be served there five till seven each 

Lernoon, barring Saturdays and Sundays, 
or any of 11s whp happen to be in town." 

" They're opening up a few rooms for us." 

" Sword and Bond are doing the teas. They 

idn't want to. They didn't think the place 

•d pay." 

" The General thinks it's quiet, and out 
of temptation's way ; and there's plenty of 
serious reading." 

" But girls ? " said Edward. 

" Ah, girls ! " said the bombing officer. 

A gusty sigh blew round the mess. 
• " If you asked a girl to the Briti^Ji 
Museum " began the senior subaltern. 

u She'd .come," Edward replied, pensively. 

" Where is the place, anyway ? " asked the 
bombing officer. 

Nobody knew. People sat about glooming. 

" It's joyous ! " said Edward. " Jovous, 
most ! " 

Edward thought a good deal that evening. 
Young he might be and of an insignificant 
appearance, though of an endearing per- 
sonality ; but he did not lack ability. He 
was full, too, of dreams and hopes and 
courage. When everyone else despaired, 
Edward Pleasant did not. His hut-mate 
thought it wonderful because in the morning 
Edward awoke brightly and turned his young, 
pink face cheerfully to the world. 

" Everything is interesting really," he said, 
as he sat in his tub. 

" Not the British Museum," his companion 

" Even that," said Edward, " might have 
its possibilities. One never knows till one 
tries. I didn't want to go to the General's 
garden-party ; but, after all, the grounds 
were big, and there was a summer-house, and 
it was quite worth it." 

Edward threw himself into the pursuit of 
interest with all his accustomed Arerve. No 
sooner was work over for the day and per- 
mission granted than he flung himself on the 
Douglas and fled up to town. He betook 
himself through strange labyrinths to the 
inimitable temple of erudition. It seemed 
very cold and large. The first thing he did 
was to go straight towards the- reading-room 
to the refreshment-room on the left. Two 
elderly females and a white-haired waiter 
rose up to serve himl They seemed positively 
pleased to see him, and asked if he had any 
friends coming. Edward sat down and ate a 
small bun commensurate with the regulations. 
After a while other men stole in and looked 
around rather wildly. They were two cap- 
tains, an adjutant, and some subalterns from 
the Nth Bucks, and they seemed somewhat 
relieved and reassured to see Edward there. 
He looked nice and homely and comfortable 
sitting before his tea-tray. 

When he saw them he nodded cheerily, and 
said : " Queer kind of place, what ? But 

sort %llWfelTY OF MICHIGAN 





They were too dejected to answer ; arid 
when they had seen the waitresses their 
dejection grew. 

£ * So new ! 5 ' said Edward, with enthusiasm ; 
" I've never seen 'anything like it. It's giving 
me — sort of thrills. It does us good to get 
so me thing— we 11, new," 

With Giro's closed, other resorts waxing 
decorous from fea^ and several commands 
beginning to think seriously over the lead 
given by General Sir Horace Topperly of the 
100th Division, it is no wonder that the 
rumour which crept about regarding the new 
place to which one could go in the afternoons f 
somewhere behind Oxford Street in the 
Bloomsbury vicinity, was taken up. The 
Service clubs and the gayer elements of society 
buzzed with it, The junior officers of the 
100th Division found themselves enjoying a 
sort of popular notoriety* Their invitations 
to tea were sought with a flattering pertinacity, 
and that portion of the British Museum which 
was open to them hummed with light and life 
from five till seven. It is unrecorded what the 
more studious ticket-holders in the library 
thought, for they barricaded their stronghold 
as a beleaguered city. 

Edward Pleasant was never busier. Almost 
daily, wangling permission^ he drove his little 

Douglas up to town. 
He made research 
fashionable. In M 
Company he found a 
young gentleman with 
leanings towards 
Egyptian lore, and 
together they complied 
very interesting bio- 
graphies of the female 
tenants of the mummy- 
room, which made 
popular and hair- 
raising reading. 
Edward or the Egyp- 
tologist read aloud, 
and the reading circle 
which probed into the 
past of the famous 
mummy Amen - topi 
was well attended each 

The Mummy Dances 
at tea- time j too, were 
an ever-growing 

Girls who could trust 

their figures, and leave 

their mothers at home, 

proved ardent disciples. 

Park Lane cars and racing two-seaters 

blocked Museum Street, and Russell Square 

was like a mass meeting. 

If you wanted to take a girl somewhere 
saucy, you ingratiated yourself with any 
subaltern of the iooth Division, wangled an 
invitation, and there you were* 

Edward Pleasant's face began to appear in 
the weekly papers ; and new numbers were 
introduced into musical comedies for the 
express purpose of drawing his crowds of 
admirers to the theatres where they were 

Edward, does your CO, know 
All that you're a -doing of ' t 

All that you're a -doing of 

was actually sung by errand-boys in the 
streets ; and the Metropolitan police from 
Bayswater to Battersea knew him by sieht, 
as he drove by on his Douglas. 

When one understands that this all c< le 
to pass within the first three weeks after ts 
initiation, one can realize that the enthusn nn 
of Edward Pleasant was likely to carry I m 

During the third week the Duchess &f 
Blanket came* She was a charming spori of 
about seventy v^;;rs of age> and she kept ip 




dfcolUties and short skirts and the Latest 
games. She didn't happen to know person- 
ally any officer of the 100th Division, but she 
drove up audaciously , inquired for Mr, Edward 
Pleasant, said she had been asked to tea but 
couldn't remember by whom, and smiled 

Edward smiled too, and caressed his wee 

" Was it I ? " he murmured* 

The Duchess was entranced and Intrigued, 
She held in her arms the current copy of the 
Weekly Tattle , with Edward 's ' face promi- 
nently displayed, 

" Dear youth/' said she, " I seem to know 
you so well ! " She held his hand through 
the length of the entrance-hall. 

After he had given her a cup of coffee, 
Edward led her straight to the exclamatory 
circle which sat round M Company's Egyp- 

The Duchess listened with cries of horror 
suid delight. 

She withdrew into a quiet corner with 
Edward and became confidential with him, 
not to say intimate, 

" Dear youth/' said she, taking one of bis 
hands between both hers, (1 it is a little early 
in life for me to think of it, perhaps, but I 
want to find a clever person to write my 
memoirs. After listening to that wonderful 
history which, I understand, you wrote your- 

** I did it," Edward replied, modestly. 

M So strong I " said the Duchess, " so full 
of colour ; so passionate. Do you really think 
she did all that, Mr, Pleasant ? " 

Edward replied ; " We believe and hope 

11 So perfectly fascinating i " said the 
Duchess, '* I feel that you would be a sym- 
pathetic collaborator for mc, dear boy, I 
have, as the world knows , been married four 
times, and it is not my intention to marry 
again. But I would not like it to be thought 
that I could not marry a fifth time if I chose* 
Indeed, corning here and talking to you in 
this dear, quiet way has given me some new 
thoughts, and^ — " % 

The Duchess was interrupted by two 

immy Dancers, who wheedled their way 

wly into the Mummy-Room, They hap- 

ned to be M Company bombing officer and 

I Lady Aure?. Sack race. The Duchess 
/ed intently. 

" How beautiful ! " she exclaimed, 

II It is very classic," Baud Edward- 

' Who invented— where is it taught ? " 
1 We teach it here/' Edward explained. 

(( Really I lf said the Duchess, ' ieally ! But 
I must have private lessons. You must come 
and see me, dear bay. We shall have to spend 
a great deal of time together about these 
memoirs — oh, a very, very great deal of time ! 
That's Aurea Sackrace, is it not ? I should 
have thought she was stouter than that. 
What are the — the swa things, dear Mr. 
Pleasant ? " 

" Bandages," said Edward. " Wc have 
plenty, you know. We are all issued with a 
number one field dressing," 

" Well, it is too wonderful," the Duchess 
moaned, w it is too wonderful ! You must 
come to see me. Next Sunday I shall be 
alone. Come after- 4 — what is it ? — church 
parade, and spend the day with me, I take 
the greatest interest 111 you t the very greatest 
interest, I shall use my influence to obtain 
a staff appointment for you." 

*' I rather want to transfer into the Flying 
Corps/ 1 said Edward. li I'd rather like to 
meet some of these German birds, y' know, or 
these Turkeys " 

M Oh, no, no ! w exclaimed the Duchess, 
shuddering ; il there are some lives too 
precious to risk ! " 

She went away smiling very much* 

As Edward left the Museum half an hour 







later, he was accosted by a clever-looking old 
gentleman, who had just kit a lar^e Daimler, 

** Mr, Pleasant ? " inquired the old gentle- 
man, cordially. 

Edward saluted. 

* l Now I want/ 1 said the old gentleman, 
"to take "up a little, just a little, of your 
valuable time/' 

11 1 must be in mess at eight, sir," Edward 
replied , 

The old gentleman betrayed a fair acquain- 
tance with Edward Pleasant 7 s movements 
and habits. 

u To be sure/ f he said ; "I quite appreciate 
it. You are motoring ? ? ' 

Edward indicated the Douglas. 

"Now/* said the old gentleman, per- 
suasively, " let me beg you to allow me to 
drive you down. Wei! put your little machine 
up somehow ; perhaps my chauffeur could 
strap her un the grid behind. Robins ! " 

While the perspiring chauffeur, two military 
and three civil policemen disposed of the 
Douglas quite efficiently, the old gentleman 
announced his identity by exclaiming : — 

" Why, there's my girl coming out ! " 

" You are the Earl of Dunne ? " said 

Edward j as he saw Lady Am ea 
tripping through the court- 
yard with the youngest bishop 
in England. 

The old 'gentleman took 
Edward's arm genially. 
*' Quite," he agreed, " quite, 
Now, my dear boy, now— 
we're off. Now iur a little 
business. I have a sort of— 
er— interest in this concern." 

The Earl took from his- 
pocket a beautiful prospectus 
of a new motor-car company, 
which he pressed upon 
Edward's attention, 

" Now j what I suggest/' 
said he , very confidentially, 
'* is that you are simply 
bound to fancy that little 
car if you saw her. Why not 
allow the company to make 
you a gift of one ? " 

" Why not, indeed? " r&- 
plied Ed ward 3 thoughtfully, 
thought you would sec it/' said the 
" We will send you ope if you say the 
just a little two-seater to run about 
in and show your friends, She's a bonny 
thing — cerise, with nickel fittings. Exactly 
the car for you, in fact. You don't wiiiit a 
family coach. The running expenses would 
be ours, if you will forgive me mentioning 
such an insignificant detail," 

f( Certainly, sir." said Edward, li certainly. 
Please mention as many more details of the 
kind as you care to." 

t( As a matter of fact/' said the Earl, more 
confidentially than ever, " we have already 
sent the car down to the Wayside garage 
which is, T believe, conveniently dose to your 

" Of course/' Edward observed, u holding 
a commission in His Majesty's Army, I could 
not possiblv advertise. I'm afraid im r 
(\0- — " 

14 My dear boy ! " protested the Earl, m-st 
distressed. ** My dear boy, don't imagine 
for a moment that we should ask such a 
thing. Just enjoy yourself* That's all wgj 
want. Naturally, we do not offer you i y- 
thing so insulting as a commission. Just he 
little car ; all running expenses ; a free if* '& 
to all A- A. hotels in the British Isles b a 
certain arrangement we shall make. We re 
not asking you to advertise us. We just ke 
to see a good fellow with a good car." 

The Earl left Edward with many morel id 
expressions of generosity . 





As Edward walked towards his hut, his 
servant met him with the news that a gentle- 
man had been waiting for some while to see 
him, and would be deeply grateful for a few- 
moments ot his valuable time. 

Edward found an awfully nice person seated 
on his camp-chair, 

u Mr, Pleasant ! " exclaimed the visitor, 
Bpringmg up* 

Edward extended a limp hand. 

" Heen dandnV'' he mid ; " rather tired/' 

u Ah ! " exclaimed the stranger, " the 
Mummy Dance ! I know— I know ! n 

" It's a hot little dance," said Edward— 
"all those bandages, you know. The i*irl 
who trussed me up this afternoon — she'd been 
a V.A.D. Believe me, she knew her job ! 
But what should you know about the 
Mummy Dance , sir ? I don't think I have 
had the plea- 
sure of seeing 
you at the 

"I should 
love to come," - 
said the 
stranger; "I 
hear it's very 
bright But 
may I introduce 
myself, Mr. 
Pleasant, and 
i^et to business, 
or I shall tres- 
pass too much 
time ? " 

He handed a 

Mr. Arthur t>e 


The Royal 

Tobacco Com* 


m May I offer 

you a cigarette, 

Mr, Pleasant? 1 ' 

h* inquired. 
When Edward 

1 id accepted 

1 d lighted one, 

I resumed :— 
u I hope you like that brand, Mr. Pleasant ? 
t is ours. We think we may say that it is 
le only cigarette extant fit for a gentleman 
• smoke. The price is only thirty shilling?* 
hundred. Cheap, of course — still, we realize 
hat war-time is war- time. Now, why shouldn't 



we send you a thousand of those cigarettes* 
and ask you to accept them as a little mark 
of our admiration ? 

" I dunno," said Edward, after thinking it 
over: " I see no reason at. all why you 
shouldn't, myself.*' 

11 That's very charming of you," said the 
ambassador of the Royal Tobacco Company, 
earnestly. " As a matter of fact, anticipating 
your kind approval and permission, w^e have 
already dispatched a thousand. They are, 
no doubt , waiting for you by your evening's 

"As long as you are not asking me to 
advertise you," said Edward, u which, as an 
officer in His Majesty's sendee, I could not 

consent to do " 

But he was interrupted by the horrified 
cries of the tobacco ambassador. 

"My dear 
sir! Oh, Mr, 
Pleasant ! We 
are perfectly 
aware that such 
a thing is 
simply not done. 
Our business 
being such a 
high -class one, 
we deal only 
with gentlemen, 
and are familiar 
with their 
principles and 
code. As a 
matter of fact, 
we only want 
you to enjoy 
our cigarettes ; 
hand them 
about among 
your friends, 
and so on. Of 
course, you will 
understand that 
— we might beg 
youj as a favour 
or compliment 
to ourselves, not 
to smoke any 
other brand 
while we 
keep you 
liberally supplied with these." 

M It will be rather expensive for you/ 1 said 
Edw f ard, u but as long as you do your part, 
I shall do mine." 

tf We quite understand " Mr. de Leres con- 

tinucd 'ijN^:W^lffll^j ftature of a 




commission would be an insult. We only beg, 
in token of our esteem, that any time you 
want a wedding present for one of your 
friends, you will drop into our Piccadilly 
place and choose any of the smoker's luxuries 
therein which you may fancy/' 

Edward parted with the tobacco ambassador 
on very amiable turms. 

He sent ln> servant for the evenings post. 
The cigarettes were there, and many letters. 
His correspondence was now vast ; but 
among the applications for first option on his 
best ideas from well-known editors, his invita- 
tions 3 his bills, and his begging letters, and an 
epistle of congratulation from a dean on his 
popularization of an institute of learning and 
research too long neglected , was one which 
arrested his attention for quite a quarter of a 

The Syndicate of British Entertainments, 
Ltd. j offered him a twenty-one years' contract 
at five thousand a year to become its Ideas 
Prospector as soon as the Army should no 
longer need his services, 

Edward felt most horribly busy, So he 
just sighed* put his box of one thousand 
cigarettes under his arm, went into the mess, 
and became more popular than before. 

He spent Sunday from morning church 
parade till late evening with the Duchess of 
Blanket. She culled from a storied past 
some very captivating material for her 
memoirs ; but she seemed more than a little 
inclined to look into the future, too. 

She ended her anecdotes more than once 
with the epigram— which she seemed to 
relish; * For a woman has never done with 

For a week she kept Edward in a constant 
ferment of correspondence, and the following 
Sunday she wished to collaborate with him 
again over the memoirs. She began to say, 
however, that she doubted if she was ripe for 
them yet ; that the full tale of her life had 
still to be told. 

She was a wonderfully vivacious woman. 

On the following Tuesday Edward drove 
his little cerise two-seater up to town, threaded 
his way with difficulty through the thronging 
cars and carriages for a wide area about the 
Museum, and saw two never-to-be-forgotten, 
figures ascending the steps. 

They were General Sir Horace and Lady 

The youngest bishop in London w f as strol- 
ling in, too, with Lady Aurea Sackrace ; the 
Earl of Dunne was already with the reading 
circle, hearing the story of the frail Amen-topl ; 
and as Edward walked into the entrance-hall 

the Duchess of Blanket, in the dearest little 
abbreviated frock, annexed him with a pro- 
prietorial air- 
She nodded to Sir Horace and extended a 
finger to Lady Topperly, but she retained fast 
hold on Edward's arm, as he stood before his 
General, saluting. 

" This wonderful j wonderful young man is 
in your command, I understand, General/' 
said the Duchess, 

1C Dear me!" exclaimed Lady Topperly, 
" it is that nice young " 

** Be quiet ! s ' said the General. " How 
d'you do , Pleasant ? how dVou do ? I had 
meant to look in here before, but have been 
deuced husy, you know. Duchess. I always 
am, There seem to be some very charming 
people here." 

His eyes w T ere arrested by a lady passing 
wheedling! y through a doorway, abstracted 
with the mazes of the Mummy Dance. 

" Isn't it classic ? " the Duchess moaned. 

11 Oh, Horace" said Lady Topperly, " it is 
just a little " 

u Be quiet I " said the General. " It is 
classic ; that makes the w r hole difference," 

" You should join the reading circle at 
once, dear people/ 1 said the Duchess, with 
round eyes. i( They are reading about that 
delightful Amen-topl, the lady mummy on 
the left of the door as you go in, and everyone 
is most thrilled." 

" We found out some more about her on 
Sunday morning," said Edward, brightening 
a little. " It is worth listenin 1 to." 

M And the love-story of the Assyrian gentle- 
man and the other mummy ! " cried the 
Duchess ; u it is a triumph for research ! And 
verv Oriental indeed." 

"'Horace," said Ladv Topperly, " I- — " 

" Be quiet ! " said the General. " Where 
is the reading circle ? " 

" Here is my publisher ! " screamed the 
Duchess; * ( and there is another publisher! 
They have come to fight for you, dear boy ! 
Over the memoirs, you know." 

As two elderly gentlemen hurried through 
the entrance- doors towards the Duchess and 
Edward, "Sir Horace and Lady Topperly 
passed on towards the Mummy-Room* There 
was no missing the way to the reading circle, 
who were applauding the latest secrets of the 
scandalous Amen-topl. 

u I will offer a thousand pounds on account 
of royalties," exclaimed the first publisher, as 
he reached Edward's side, " for the Blanket 
Memoirs ! I have the contract and the 
cheque in my pocket." 

' Two thousand I " said the second pub- 




Msher, li b-b-but I have left the contract and 
cheque at home." 

Edward bade the second publisher good-bye 
rather regretfully, accepted a fountain-pen^ 
signed the contract , received the cheque, and 
followed General and Lady Topperly into the 
Mummy- Room. 
He was just in 
time to see the 
General spring 
up and hurry 
from the circle, 
which he had 
recently joined. 
Edward found 
him entranced 
in contempla- 
tion of the 
peaceful form 
of Amen-toph 

Advanci ng 
Edward stood 
beside him, and 
they gased at 
the lady in 

41 Pleasant," 
said the 
General ? " do 
you think she 
really did ? " 

* Certainly, 
*ir ? " Edward 

" It's a pity 
she has all those wrappings on/* the General 

mused. " one might have I should rather 

have liked to form my own opinion." 

11 There's no doubt but that she was a great 
giri/' said Edward, with enthusiasm, 

They heard an agitated rustle behind them, 
and there was Lady Topperly, 

jfi 3£> T-T 


Is that the person ? 

said she, with a 
' I rather wonder, 

frigid look at Amen* topi* 

Horace f 

* Be quiet ! " said the General, u It is 
history, History is perfectly refined, 1 1 makes 
all "ic difference." 

\ gentleman is looking for Mr, Pleasant," 

lady Topperly, 

le quiet 1 began the General ; but even 

3r ladyship spoke, a large, rich, happy 
hurried into [he room. Seizing upon 
Ec t-ard, he shook him by the hand, looking 
at xm with positive affection, 

"dward Pleasant ? " be cried. " Sir, 
vi 1; a wonder ! You're a genius ! I'm 


managing director of the Syndicate of British 
Amusements* We wrote you awhile ago, but 
have as yet not had the privilege of a reply. 
So here I am, Mr, Pleasant, with our contract 
in my pocket, which sets out an advance on 
the previous figure* You didn't think it 

worth your 
j^ft v consideration ? 

gfjj - Quite so ! We 

T "* tf absolutely 

understand. A 
man of your 
capacities isn't 
going cheap. 
Let me per- 
suade you, 
howeveT, to 
give us the 
option on your 
post - war ser- 
vices. You 
have my sincere 
admiration, sir, 
as the man 
who has made 
the British 
Museum the 
best and 
brightest show 
in town." 

H Will you 
excuse me a 
moment, Ladv 
asked Edward, 
very wearied ly, 
as he struggled 
with the flap of the pocket where hq, kept 
his fountain-pen. 

14 Horace/' said Lady Topperly, " see the 
figure ! " 

" Be quiet \ " replied the General, looking 
over Edward's shoulder. 

u Seven thousand ! " he whispered, be- 

41 Mr. Pleasant," said Lady Topperly, il you 
have neglected us shamefully of late." 

" Be quiet ! " said Sir Horace. ** Pleasant, 
my boy, as you know, I have always been 
interested in your career, I remember, faintly, 
having quite a long talk with you once. We 
must have one again. Come to dinner to- 
morrow at half-past seven." 

When Edward drove up in his little cerise 
car to the TopperhV residence at Cranberry 
Heath the next evening, he was not elated. 
Rather, he was becoming somewhat dazed, 
remote, LifeQ^^jpfypffi^ij^g upon him too 


J 54 


But in the drawing-room beside her mother 
was Mary j meek in the little pink frock , 
which -was hardly more than a very high- 
waisted skirt, and two bead shoulder-straps. 

Edward had never guessed that a General 
could be so fatherly. 

When, after a very chic little dinner, Mary, 
meek as a dove, followed her mother out ; the 
General began to discuss Edward's future. 
His sympathy and appreciation were charming. 
He heard about the memoirs, and gathered 
satisfactory intelligence about his youngest 
subaltern's social circle, and spoke with respect 
of the post-war contract. 

He gave Edward a port which he had never 
ofTered before save to Cabinet Ministers, 

He asked Edward very kindly if he didn't 
think he ought, even if only as a sort of duty 
to the country, 
to marrv. 

"I think I 
am supposed 
to be going 
to m a r r y, 
sir," Edw F ard 
rather faintly. 

The General 
thought of Lad y 
Aurea Sack- 
race , who had 
been mummy- 
dancing without 
ceasing the 
previous after- 
noon, Was it 
she ? 

11 1 have com^ 
promised the 
I) u c h e s s of 
Blanket," said 
Edward, more 
faintly yet. 

" Oh, come!" 
said the 
General, very 
mellowly, " come 

like to hear. Sometimes the strategy oE laissez 
faire is best. Strategy, Pleasant, strategy 1 
We must all leam it," 

Taking Edward's arm, he walked him out 
into the cool garden, " A cigar out here," 
he said, soothingly, '" a little calm reflection, 
- . . I will bring the ladies out*' 1 

But it was only Mary who came, in the 
small pink frock. 

She and Edward fled into each other's 
arms and kissed. 

The little cerise car was drawn up in the 
moonlight before the hall steps. 
*' She looks a duck," Mary murmured. 
" Get in/' said Edward, revived and en- 

The General cried from some hidden 
watching-place : " Put on a thick coat, mv 

child!" and 
Lady Topperly 
butler, " Place 
a biscuit - box 
and a bottle of 
quickly in Mr, 
Peasant's car." 
But not the 
General or Lady 
Topperly or the 
thick coat of 
the biscuit-box 
put out the 
jolly flame in 
Edward's and 
Mary's hearts. 
The cerise car 
went down the 
drive like a red 

t,httii ng 

cried Lady 
Topperly, " do 
you think she'll 

be hap ? " 

Be quiet ! " said the General, t( They've 

How did it happen ? But no ! On second eloped. It was touch and go, but they've 

thoughts ; tell me nothing, much as I should don^ it," 



Come, my boy ! Dear me 

*J)0 not j or get that The Strand Magazine may nenv be sent post free to British 
soldiers and sailors at home or abroad. All you need do is to hand your copies^ 
without wrapper or address, over the counter at any post-office in the United Kingdom, 
and they will be sent by the authorities wherever they will be most welcome. 

by LiGOgle 







Selected by himself- With 
his own translation of 
the great hymn, " Jabez." 

fkoio, s, it. j/ito, 

Mr. Lloyd George, who is very fond, as 
a relaxation from the strain and cares 
of office, of singing the splendid hymns of 
his own most music -loving native land, 
has selected the five following as his 
chief favourites. He has, moreover, 

made a translation of one of them, which, 
although a strictly literal prose version, 
nevertheless conveys much of the feeling 
of the original; but the words are so 
intensely Welsh in sentiment and expres- 
sion as almost to baffle a translator. Our 




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readers of musical tastes will be interested 
in trying them over, and comparing them 
with the most popular hymn - tunes of our 
own congregations. The difference in 
style is very marked, especially in the 
Welsh love for plaintive melodies and 
minor keys, so much so as to account, inr 
great measure, for the fact that these five 
tunes are still unknown among ourselves* 

The reader can readily select^ in the case 
of each of the following examples, some 
well-known English hymn that suits the 
metre, and so try the effect of the melodies 
as sung. He will, we think, find it grow 
upon him, and he will come to under- 
stand something of the deep emotional 
effect to which the Premier, like all his 
countrymen, is so keenly sensitive. 


Os dof fi trwyV anialwch, 
Rhyfeddaf fyth Dy ras, 

A'm henaid i lonyddwch 
'Rol ganwaith golli'r maes, 

A'r maglau wedi eu torn, 


If e'er I cross the wilderness, 
I shall forever marvel at Thy grace : ! 
My soul brought to tranquillity i 
After a hundred times losing the day : 
And the fetters all shattered, 

A'm traed yn gwbwl rydd : 
Os gwelir fi fel hynny, 
Tragwyddql foli a fydd. 

And my feet completely free. 
If ever I am seen thus, 
Eternal will be the praise. 


Os gwelir fi, bechadur, 


If e'er I am seen, a sinner, 

Ryw ddydd ar ben fy nhaith, 
Rhyfeddol fydd y canu, 

A newydd fydd yr iaith, — 
Yn seinio " Buddugoliaeth," 

Am iachawdwriaeth lawn, 

One day at the end of my march, 
Wonderful will be the singing 
And new will be the song : 
Sounding " Victory ! " 
For a full salvation, 

Heb ofni colli'r frwdyr, 
Na bore na phrydnawn. 

Without fear of losing the battle, 
Neither in the morn nor yet at eve. 



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Original from 



Illustrated by V/ill Oweiu 

R, PURNIP took the arm of 
the new recruit and hung 
over him almost tenderly as 
they walked along ; Mr. Bill- 
ing, with a look of conscious 
virtue on his jolly face, listened 
with much satisfaction to 
his friend's compliments, 

*' It's such an example/ 1 said the latter. 
" Now we've got you the others will follow 
like sheep, You will be a bright lamp in 
the darkness." 

b * Wot's good enough for me ought to he 
good enough for them/' said Mr. Billing, 
modestly. " They'd better not let me 

catch ** 

M W$h f H'sh I " breathed Mr. Purnip, tilt- ' 
ing his hat and wiping liis bald, benevolent 

" I forgot/' said the other, with something 
like a sigh, " No more fighting ; but suppose 
somebody hits me ? " 

" Turn the other cheek/' replied Mn 
Purnip. " They won't hit that ; and when 

Copyright, 191 7, by 

they see you standing there smiling at 
them "' 

" After being hit ? " interrupted Mr, 

" After being hit,** assented the other, 
" they'll be ashamed of themselves, and 
it'll hurt tlicrn more than if you struck them." 

" Let's *ope so," said the convert; "but 
it don't sound reasonable, I can hit a man 
pretty 'ard. Not that I'm bad-tempered, 
mind you ; a bit quick, p'r'aps* And, after 
all, a good smack in th 1 jaw saves any amount 
of argufying," 

Mr. Purnip smiled, and, as they walked 
along, painted a glowing picture of the influ- 
ence to he wielded by a first-class fighting- 
man who refused to fight. It was a KWgfi 
neighbourhood , and he recognized with sorrow 
that more respect was paid to a heavy fist 
than to a noble intellect or a loving heart. 

" And you combine them all/' he said, 
patting his companion's arm, 

Mr. Billing smiled, '* You ought to know 
best/ 1 he sa^ modestly, 




" You'll be surprised to find how easy it 
is," continued Mr. Purnip. " You will go 
from strength to strength. Old habits will 
disappear, and you will hardly know you 
have lost them. In a few • months' time 
you will probably be wondering what you 
could ever have seen in beer, for example." 

" I thought you said you didn't want me 
to give up beer ? " said the other. 

*' We don't/' said Mr. Purnip. " I mean 
that as you grow in stature you will simply 
lose the taste for it." 

Mr. Billing came to a sudden full stop. 
** D'ye mean I shall lose my Kking for a drop 
o* beer without being able to help myself ? " 
he demanded, in an anxious voice. 

Mr. Purnip coughed. 

"Of course, it doesn't happen in every 
case," he said, hastily. 

Mr. Billing's features relaxed. " Well, let's 
'ope I shall be one of the fortunate ones," 
he said, simply. " I can put up with a good 
deal, but when it comes to beer " 

u We shall see," said the other, smiling. 
<f W T e don't want to interfere with anybody's 
comfort ; we want to make them happier^ 
that's all. A little more kindness between 
man and man ; a little more consideration 
for each other; a little more brightness 
in dull lives." 

He paused at the corner of the street and, 
with a hearty handshake, went off. Mr. 
Billing, a prey to somewhat mixed emotions, 
continued on his way home. The little 
knot of earnest men and women who had 
settled in the district to spread light and 
culture had been angling for him for some 
time. He wondered, as he walked, what 
particular bait it was that had done the 

" They've got me at last," he remarked, 
as he opened the house-door and walked 
into his small kitchen.* " I couldn't say 
1 no ' to Mr. Purnip." 

" Wish 'em joy," said Mrs. Billing, briefly. 
" Did you wipe your boots ? " 

Her husband turned without a word, and, 
retreating to the mat, executed a prolonged 

ifou needn't wear it out," said the sur- 
p d Mrs. Billing. 

We've got to make people 'appier," 
& . her husband, seriously ; "' be kinder 
fc 'em, and brighten up their dull lives a 
b That's wot Mr. Purnip says." 

You'll brighten 'em up all right," de- 
c ed Mrs. Billing, with a sniff. " I sha'n't 
f< ,et last Tuesday week— not if I live ,to 
b ** hundred. You'd ha* brightened up 

the police-station if I 'adn't got you home 
just in the nick of time." 

Her husband, who was by this time busy 
under the scullery-tap, made no reply. He 
came from it spluttering, and, seizing a small 
towel, stood in the doorway burnishing his 
face and regarding his wife with a smile which 
- Mr. Purnip himself could not have surpassed. 
He sat down to supper, and between bites 
explained in some detail the lines on which 
his future life was to be run. As an earnest ' 
of good faith, he consented, after a short 
struggle, to a slip of oilcloth for the passage ; 
a pair of vases for the front room ; and a 
new and somewhat expensive corn-cure for 
Mrs. Billing. 

" And let's 'ope you go on as you've begun," 
said that gratified lady. " There's some- 
thing in old Purnip after all. I've been 
worrying you for months for that oilcloth. Are 
you going to help me wash up ? Mr. Purnip 

Mr. Billing appeared not to hear, and, 
taking up his cap, strolled slowly in the 
direction of the Blue Lion. It was a beau- 
tiful summer evening, and his bosom swelled 
as he thought of the improvements that a 
little brotherliness might effect in Eik Street. 
Engrossed in such ideas, it almost hurt him 
to find that, as he entered one door of the 
Blue Lion, two gentlemen, forgetting all 
about their beer, disappeared through the 

" Wot 'ave they run away like that for ? " 
he demanded, looking round. " I wouldn't 
hurt 'em." 

" Depends on wot you call hurting, Joe," 
said a friend. 

Mr. Billing shook his head. " They've 
no call to be afraid of me," he said, gravely. 
"I wouldn't hurt a fly; I've got a new 

" A new wot ? "" inquired his friend, 

" A new 'art," repeated the other. " I've 
given up fighting and swearing, and drink- 
ing too much. I'm going to lead a new 
life and do all the good I can ; I'm 
going " 

" Glory ! Glory ! " ejaculated a long, thin 
youth, who, making a dash for the door, 

" He'll know me better in time," said Mr. 
Billing. " Why, I wouldn't hurt a fly. I 
want to do good to people ; not to hurt 'em. 
I'll have a pint," he added, turning to the 

" Not here you won't." said the landlord, 

eyeingl »#TY OF MICHIGAN 



" Why not ? " demanded the astonished 
Mr. Billing. 

" You've had all you ought to have already," 
was the reply. " And there's one thing Til 
swear to — you ain't had it 'ere." 

" I haven't 'ad a drop pass my lips " 

began the outraged Mr. Billing. 

" Yes, I know," said the other, wearily, 
as he shifted one or two glasses and wiped 
the counter ; " I've heard it all before, over 
and over again. Mind you, I've been in 
this business thirty years, and if I don't 
know when a man's had his whack, and a 
drop more, nobody does. You get off 'ome 
and ask your missis to make you a nice cup 
o' good strong tea, and then get up to bed 
and sleep it off." 

" I dare say," said Mr. Billing, with cold 
dignity, as he paused at the door — u I 
dare say I may give up beer altogether." 

He stood outside pondering over the un- 
foreseen difficulties attendant upon his new 
career, moving a few inches to one side as 
Mr. Ricketts, a foe of long standing, came 
towards the public-house and, halting a yard 
or two away, eyed him warily. 

" Come along," said Mr. Billing, speaking 
somewhat loudly, for the benefit of the men 
in the bar ; " I sha'n't hurt you ; my fighting 
days are over." 

" Yes, I dessay," replied the other, edging 

" It's all right, Bill," said a mutual friend, 
through the half-open door ; " he's got a 
new 'art." 

Mr. Ricketts looked perplexed. " 'Art 
disease, d'ye mean ? " he inquired, hope- 
fully. " Can't he fight no more. ? " 

" A new 'art," said Mr. Billing. " It's as 
strong as ever it was, but it's changed — 
brother." " 

" If you call me 'brother' agin I'll give 
you something for yourself, and chance it," 
said Mr. Ricketts, ferociously. " I'm a 
pore man, but I've got my pride." 

Mr. Billing, with a smile charged with 
brotherly love, leaned his left cheek towards 
him. " Hit it," he said, gently. 

" Give it a smack and run, Bill," said the. 
voice of a well-wisher inside. 

" There'd be no need for 'im to run," 
said Mr. Billing. " I wouldn't hit 'im back 
for anything. I should turn the other 

" Whaffor ? " inquired the amazed Mr. 

" For another swipe," said Mr. Billing, 

In the fraction of a second he got the first, 

and reeled back staggering. The onlookers 
from the bar came out hastily. Mr. Ricketts, 
somewhat pale, stood his ground. 

* You see, I don't hit you," said Mr. 
Billing, with a ghastly attempt at a smile. 

He stood rubbing his cheek gently, and, 
remembering Mr. Purnip's statements, slowly, 
inch by inch, turned the other in the direction 
of his adversary. The circuit was still 
incomplete when Mr. Ricketts, balancing 
himself carefully, fetched it a smash that 
nearly burst it. Mr. Billing, somewhat 
jarred by his contact with the pavement, 
rose painfully and confronted him. 

" I've only got two cheeks, mind," he 
said, slowly. • 

Mr. Ricketts sighed. " I wish you'd got 
a blinking dozen," he said, wistfully. " Well, 
so long. Be good." 

He walked into the Blue Lion absolutely 
free from that sense of shame which Mr. 
Purnip had predicted, and, accepting a pint 
from an admirer, boasted noisily of his 
exploit. Mr. Billing, suffering both mentally 
and physically, walked slowly home to his 
astonished wife. 

" PVaps he'll be ashamed of hisself when 
'e comes to think it over," he murmured, as 
Mrs. Billing, rendered almost perfect by 
practice, administered first aid. 

"I s'pect; he's, crying his eyes out," , she 
said, with a sniff. " Tell me if that ,'urts." 

Mr. Billing told her, then, suddenly remem- 
bering himself, issued an expurgated edition* 

" I'm sorry for. the next man that 'its 
you," said his wife, as she drew back and 
regarded her handiwork. 

" Well, you needn't be," said Mr. Billing, 
with dignity. " It would v take more than a 
couple o' props in the jaw to make me alter 
my mind when I've made it up. You ought 
to know that by this time. Hurry up and 
finish. I want you to go to the corner and 
fetch me a pot." 

" What, ain't you going out agin ? " 
demanded his astonished wife. 

Mr. Billing shook his head. " Somebody 
else might want to give me one," he said, 
resignedly, " and I've 'ad about all I want 
. to-night." ; . 

His fa£e was still painful next morning, 
but as he sat at breakfast in the small kitchen 
he was able to refer to Mr. Ricketts in terms 
which were- an* qjoguent testimony to Mr. 
Purnip's teaching.^ Mrs. Billing, unable to 
contairt herself, wandered off into the front 
room with ^ du&gr. : 

" Are you nearly ready to go ? " she 
inquired, returning after a short interval. 




* c Five minutes," said Mr. Billing., nodding, 
11 I'll just light my pipe and then I'm off." 

u 'Cos there's two or three waiting outside 
for you/' added his wife. 

Mr. Billing rose, " Ho, is there ? " he said, 
grimly, as he removed his coat and pro- 
ceeded to roll up his shirt -sleeves, EL I'll 
learn 'em. I'll give J em something to wait 
for. m -* 

His voice died away as he saw the triumph 
in his wife's face, and, drawing down liis 

** Did you want to see- my husband ? H 
she inquired. 

The biggest of the three nodded. " Yus," 
he said, shortly, 

" I'm sorry," said Mrs. Billing, " but he 
'ad to go early this morning- Was it anything 
partikler ? " 

l£ Corn ? " said the other, in disappointed 
tones. " Well, you tell 'im I'll see 'im later 
on/ 1 

He turned away and, followed by the 


' / 

'flying up the road hotly pursued by a foeman half his size/' 

sleeves again, he took up his coat and stood 
eyeing her in genuine perplexity* 

" Tell 'em I've gorn," he said, at last. 

(f And what about telling lies ? " demanded 
I " s wife. " What would your Mr. Purnip 
a 7 to that ? " 

* You do as you're told," exclaimed the 
1 trussed Mr, Billing. " Vm not goii^; to 
t U 'em ; it's you." 

Mrs. Billing returned to the parlour, and, 

l ith Mr. Billing lurking in the background, 

I isied herself over a china flower- pot that 

s >od in the window, and turned an anxious 

* r e upon three men waiting outside. After 

\ gfcju'e or two she went to the door* 
Vols Ht.-h 

other two, walked slowly up the road. Mr. 
Billing, after waiting till the coast was clear, 
went off in the other direction. 

He sought counsel of his friend and mentor 
that afternoon, and stood beaming with 
pride at the praise lavished upon him. Mr, 
Purnip's co-workers were no less enthusiastic 
than their chief; and various suggestions 
were made to Mr. Billing as to his behaviour 
in the unlikely event of further attacks upon 
his noble person. 

He tried to remember the suggestions in 
the , harassing days that followed ; baiting 
Joe Billing becorruig papular as a pastime 
from wJ^^'Ifp^^p^^^lfi^H be feared. 


1 62 


It was creditable to his fellow-citizens that 
most of them refrained from violence with 
a man who declined to hit back, but as a 
butt his success was assured. The night 
when a gawky lad of eighteen drank up his 
beer, and then invited him to step outside 
if he didn't like it, dwelt long in his memory. 
And Elk Street thrilled one evening at the 
sight of their erstwhile champion flying up 
the road hotly pursued by a foeman half 
his size. His explanation to his indignant 
wife that, having turned the other cheek the 
night before, he was in no mood for further 
punishment, was received in chilling silence. 

" They'll soon get tired of it," he said, 
hopefully ; " and I ain't going to be beat 
by a lot of chaps wot I could lick with one 
'and tied behind me. They'll get to under- 
stand in time; Mr. Purnip says so. It's a 
pity that you don't try and do some good 

Mrs. Billing received the suggestion with 
a sniff ; but the seed was sown. She thought 
the matter over in private, and came to the 
conclusion that, if her husband wished her 
to participate in good works, it was not for 
her to deny him. Hitherto her efforts in 
that direction had been promptly suppressed ; 
Mr. Billing's idea being that if a woman 
looked after her home and her husband 
properly there should be neither time nor 
dqsire for anything else. His surprise on 
arriving home to tea on Saturday afternoon, 
and finding a couple of hard-working* neigh- 
bours devouring his substaiice, almost de- 
prived him of speech. 

" Poor things," said his wife, after the 
guests had gone ; " they did enjoy it. It's 
cheered 'em up wonderful. You and Mr, 
Purnip are quite right. I can see that now. 
You can tell him that it was you what put 
it into my 'art." 

" Me ? Why, I never dreamt o' such a 
thing," declared the surprised Mr. Billing. 
" And there's other ways of doing good 
besides asking a pack of old women in to 

11 1 know there is," said his wife. " All 
in good time," she added, with a far-away 
look in her eyes. 

Mr. Billing cleared his throat, but nothing 
came of it. He cleared it again. 

" I couldn't let you do all the good," said 
his wife, hastily. " It wouldn't be fair, 
I must help." 

Mr. Billing lit his pipe noisily, and then 
took it out into the back-yard and sat down 
to think over the situation. The ungenerous 
idea that his wife was making goodness 

serve her own ends was the first that 
occurred to him. 

His suspicions increased with time. Mrs. 
Billing's good works seemed to be almost 
entirely connected with hospitality. True, 
she had entertained Mr. Purnip and one of 
the ladies from the Settlement to tea, but that 
only riveted his bonds more firmly. Other 
visitors included his sister-in-law, for whom 
he had a great distaste, and some of the 
worst-behaved children in the street. 

11 It's only high spirits," said Mrs. Billing ; 
" all children are like that. And I do it to 
help the mothers." 

" And 'cos you like children," said her 
husband, preserving his good-humour with 
an effort. * 

There was a touch of monotony about the 
new life, and the good deeds that accompanied 
it, which, to a man of ardent temperament, 
was apt to pall. And Elk Street, instead 
of giving him the credit which w&s his due, 
preferred to ascribe the change in his be- 
haviour to what they called being " a bit 
barmy on the crumpet." 

He came home one evening somewhat 
dejected, brightening up as he stood in the 
passage and inhaled the ravishing odours 
from the kitchen. Mrs. Billing, with a trace 
of nervousness somewhat unaccountable in 
view of the excellent quality of the repast 
provided, poured him out a glass of beer, 
and passed flattering comment upon his 

" Wot's the game ? " he inquired. 

" Game ? " repeated his wife, in a trem- 
bling voice. " Nothing. 'Ow do you find that 
steak-pudding ? I thought of giving you 
one every Wednesday." 

Mr. Billing put down his knife and fork 
and sat regarding her thoughtfully. Then 
he pushed back his chair suddenly and, 
a picture of consternation and wrath, held 
up his hand for silence. 

" W-w-wot is it ? " he demanded. " A 
cat ? " 

Mrs. Billing made no reply, and her husband 
sprang to his feet as a long, thin wailing 
sounded through the house. A note of 
temper crept into it and strengthened it. 

" Wot is it ? " demanded Mr. Billing again. 

" It's — it's Mrs. Smith's Charlie," stammered 
his wife. 

** In — in my bedroom ? " exclaimed her 
husband, in incredulous accents. " Wot's 
it doing there ? " 

" I took it for the night," said his wife, 
hurriedly, " Pocr tiling, what with the 
others bei^.g/p^^Ia^a dreadful tune, 



and she said if I'd take Charlie for a few 
—for a night, she might be able to get some 

Mr. Billing choked. " And wot about my 
steep ? " he shouted. " Chuck it outside at 
once. D'ye hear me ? " 

His words fell on empty air, his wife having 
already sped upstairs to pacify Master Smith 
by a rhythmical ^nd monotonous thumping 
on the back. Also she lifted up a thin and 
not particularly sweet voice and sang to him. 
Mr. Billing, finishing his supper in indignant 
silence, told himself grimly that he was 
" beginning to have enough of it." 

He spent the evening at the Charlton Arms, 
and, returning late, went slowly and heavily 
up to bed. In the light of a shaded candle 
he saw a small, objectionable-looking infant 
fast asleep on two chairs by the side of the 

44 Wsh ! " said his wife, in a thrilling 
whisper. u He's just gone off." 

" D'ye mean I mustn't open my mouth 
in my own bedroom ? " demanded the indig- 
nant man, loudly. 
" H'sht" said his wife again. . 
It was too late. Master Smith, opening 
first one eye and then the other, finished 
by opening his .mouth. The noise was 

"H'sht H'sh!" repeated Mrs. Billing, 
as her husband began to add to the noise. 
" Don't wake 'im right up." 

" Right up ? " repeated the astonished 
man. " Right up ? Why, is he doing this in 
'is sleep ? " 

He subsided into silence and, undressing 
with stealthy care, crept into bed and lay 
there, marvelling at his self-control. He 
was a sound sleeper, but six times at least 
be was awakened by Mrs. Billing slipping 
out of bed — regardless of draughts to her 
liege lord — and marching up and down the 
room with the visitor in her arms. He rose 
in the morning and dressed in ominous 

" I 'ope he didn't disturb you," said his 
wife, anxiously. 

" You've done it," replied Mr. Billing. 
" ou've upset everything now. Since I 
j( ted the Purnip lot everybody's took advan- 
fc e of me ; now I'm going to get some of my 
1 back. You wouldn't ha' dreamt of 
b naving like this a few weeks ago." 

1 Oh, Joe ! " said his wife, entreatingly ; 
11 id everybody's been so happy ! " 

Except me," retorted Joe Billing. " You 
o ae down and get my breakfast ready. 
Il start early I shall catch Mr. Bill Ricketts 

on 'is way to work. And mnd, if I* find that 
steam-orgin 'ere when I come 'ome to-night 
you'll hear of it." 

He left the house with head erect and the 
light of battle in his eyes, and, meeting Mr. 
Ricketts at the corner, gave that justly 
aggrieved gentleman the surprise of his 
life. Elk Street thrilled to the fact that Mr. 
Billing had broken out again, and spoke 
darkly of what the evening might bring 
forth. Curious eyes followed his progress 
as he returned home from work, and a little 
later on the news was spread abroad that he 
was out and paying off old scores with an 
ardour that nothing could withstand. 

" And wot about your change of 'art ? " 
demanded one indignant matron, as her 
husband reached home five seconds ahead 
of Mr. Billing and hid in the scullery. 

" It's changed agin," said Mr. Billing, 

He finished the evening in the Blue Lion, 
where he had one bar almost to himself, 
and, avoiding his wife's reproachful glance 
when he arrived home, procured some warm 
water and began to bathe his honourable 

" Mr. Purnip 'as been round with another 
gentleman," said his wife. 

Mr. Billing said " Oh ! " 

" Very much upset they was, and 'ope 
you'll go and see them," she continued. 

Mr. Billing said "Oh!" again; and, after 
thinking the matter over, called next day 
at the Settlement and explained his position. 

(i It's all right for gentlemen like you," 
he said, civilly. "But a man like me can't 
call Ids soul 'is own — or even 'is bedroom. 
Everybody takes advantage of 'im. Nobody 
ever gives you a punch, and, as for putting 
babies in your bedroom, they wouldn't 
dream of it." 

He left amid expressions of general regret, 
turning a deaf ear to all suggestions about 
making another start, and went off exulting 
in his freedom. 

His one trouble was Mr. Purnip, that 
estimable gentleman, who seemed to have 
a weird gift of meeting him at all sorts of - 
times and places, never making any allusion 
to his desertion, but showing quite clearly 
by his manner that he still hoped for the 
return of the wanderer. It was awkward 
for a man of sensitive disposition, and Mr. 
Billing, before entering a street, got into 
the habit of peering round the corner first. 

He pulled up suddenly one evening as he 
saw his tenacious fricftd, accompanied by 
a lady-pijember,j-pYip|^ ^^|,distance ahead. 



Then he* sprang forward with fists clenched 
as a passer- by , after scowling at Mr, Ptimip, 
leaned forward and deliberately blew a mouth- 
ful of smoke into the face of his companion, 

Mr, Billing pulled up suddenly and stood 
gaping with astonishment. The aggressor 
was getting up from the pavement, while 
Air. Purnip, in an absolutely correct attitude, 

" I'm ashamed of myself/' he murmuredc 
brokenly-- 1 * ashamed." 

" Ashamed ! " exclaimed the amazed Mr, 
Billing. " Why, a pro couldn't ha' done 

" Such an awful example/ 1 moaned the 
other. " All my good work here thrown 


f >- -a a 


Stood waiting for him. Mr. Billing in a glow 
of delight edged forward, and ; with a few 
other fortunateSj stood by watching one of 
the best fights that had ever been seen in 
the district. Air. Purnip\s foot- work was 
excellent ? and the way fie timed his blows 
made Mr, Hilling's eyes moist with admira- 

It was over at last. The aggressor went 
limping offj and Mr. Pumip, wiping his bald 
head, picked up his battered and dusty hat 
from the roadway and brushed it on his sleeve. 
He turned with a blush to meet the delighted 
gaze of Mr. Billing, 

" Don't you believe it, sir/ 1 said Mr. 
Billing, earnestly, "As soon as this gets 
about you'll get more members than you 
want almost. I'm coming hack, for one." 

Mr. Purnip turned and grasped his 

+ * I understand things now/ 1 said Mr. 
Billing, nodding sag<K\ l( Filming the other 
cheek's all right so long as you don't do it 
always. If you don't let 'em know whether 
you are going to turn the other cheek or 
knock their blessed heads off, it's all rig 
'Arf the tniublu in the world is caused 
people knowing too much," 

Sherlock Holmes 

Next Month ! 




BE LIKE IN 1930 ? 

Tke Opinions of Sir A. Gonan Doyle, Mr. H. G. Wells, 
and otter eminent and representative men in various walks 

of lire. 



IT is a fascinating problem which you suggest, and one upon which one 
would not dare to be dogmatic. In the energetic hours of a great war 
one imagines that the same energy will be carried on into peace days 
and great reforms effected. I fear that the lesson of history is just the 
opposite. Lethargy and exhaustion follow upon great national exer- 
tions. After the Napoleonic wars, from 1815 onwards no internal event 
of outstanding importance occurred until the Reform Bill of 1832. 
It is true, on the other hand, that there is a spiritual quality in this 
war, and that men's minds and souls have been moved as never before. 
This may give us after-results. These will depend upon the extent of 
phot*. Elliott* vr*. our victory. Jf it is incomplete and Germany is left in vindictive mood, 

with her present rulers still in power, then the military situation will predominate, and con- 
ditions remain very hard for all classes. If, on the other hand, we win to such a point that 
we can safely reduce our military expenses to a minimum, we shall, in spite of our crippling 
debt, be able to effect something in the way of social reform. The money saved from the 
fighting services shotrtd give us enough to increase the present old-age pensions, which are 
too low, to encourage education on a large scale, to subsidize scientific research, and to deal 
with the whole subject of poverty and disease in a drastic fashion.. Education must be of 
character rather than of mere learning, for Germany has shown us during these dreadful 
days that the possession of knowledge, when it is unbalanced by character, turns a modern 
man into the most dangerous type of savage that the world has ever seen. A well-balanced 
education of a democratic type will carry with it the seeds of temperance and sexual restraint. 
You must prepare the soil carefully before you can get such results. Then they will come of 

I hope that temperance legislation may take the form of regulating the strength of the 
intoxicant. Light beers and wines* give a variety to life and can do no harm. I would, how- 
ever, rather see total prohibition than the state of tilings which existed before the war. Some 
Teat change will surely have come before 1930. 

Some form of profit-sharing or co-operation will be earnestly called for between Labour 
id Capital. The weak point of the demands of Labour is that they never refer to the countless 
stances when the Capital is invested and lost. If they share profits, then it is clear that 
ey should share losses, and the two may well balance each other. However, some working 
jreeraent must be attained, or the country will be convulsed by never-ending troubles. 

Ireland should be a loyal part of the Empire before 1930. It might well have been so 
iw but for the rising of the Sinn-Feiners. Before 1930 one would hope that every Irishman 
ould realize that such agitations do little harm to the Empire, but are fatal to the peace 
id prosperity of Ireland. Home Rule all round is sure to come , but whether it can be attained 

y x 93 o is very doubtful. UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN 


On the religious side of life I have already expressed my views when commenting upon 
those of Sir Oliver Lodge, The tendency will be to get at the roots- of religion to cast away 
the forms and formulae, and to believe in deeds rather than m dogmas. At the same time 
there will be an increasing demand for positive proofs of supernatural interference, and an 
acceptance of the fact that the age of inspiration and of revelation is not a dead historical 
thing, but is with us even now. 

Of mechanical improvements I am not competent to speak. The war, however, has given 
an immense impetus to the submarine and to the airship, It is evident that the latter is 
destined to compete with the railways for passenger traffic in the future, and that submarine 
merchantmen will escape the dangers of stormy weather, so long as they are in the broad, 
deep oceans, I believe that, taking the history of the last twenty years, we have, in 
spite of some ameliorating influences, lived in 

the most wicked epoch of the world's history ; y^VV*^ /* /\ - Sin 

so that all changes are likely to be for the better. *fTWU*±+ C^^^« ttFfff^* 


THE war is costing us the lives of hundreds of thousands of our 

* best in mind and body. In losing them w r e lose the fathers of the 

future. The next generation will be born of fathers inferior as a 

whole to those whom the war has taken, This is what I call the 

dysgenics of war— the reverse of eugenics, w T hich is the choice of the 

best to be the parents of the future. In thus paying the longest 

price of war we offer the true and tragic reply to the infamous lie 

of Bernhardt that aggressive w T ar is the duty of a strong nation, 

on the principle of the survival of the fittest , and is justified and 

demanded by this principle of Darwin, In direct contradiction to 

the German bully, the humane and noble Englishman whose name 

he maligns taught , as Benjamin Franklin had taught before him, that war is dreadful above 

allj because it is, as I have said, dysgenic, 

May we hope for anything, as an outcome or by-product of the war, which will compensate 
us for this direct injury to our racial quality ? Indeed we can. For such hope we must turn 
to the other sex, Neither Franklin nor Darwin, curiously enough, noted the important fact, 
upon which I commented more than two years ago in my Chadwick lectures^ that the 
" reversed selection " of war spares the mothers — who are, after all, the more important 
parents of the two. If this war should somehow lead to better conditions for motherhood, it 
might even lie come a racial blessing in disguise. 

But, indeed, that is happening. We are now caring for babies, and for their mothers, who 
are the natural saviours of babies, as never before. This year's " Baby Week," well chosen 
to be the first w T eck of the third quarter of the year, when babies die so quickly if no one cares 
about them, will be an annual function. Soon we shall be saving the thousand babies 
a week whom, as Lord Rhondda declared months ago, we can save when we please. In 
doing so, we shall avert the damage otherwise done to far more babies still. RicketSj due to 
bad feeding of infancy and childhood, a wholly preventable malady which Continental nations 
call the u English disease," w T ouId soon be no more seen. The beneficent results in the 
physique and happiness of the next generation of citizens will be a strange but blessed result 
of this war, 

The injurious results of alcohol, especially in the form of spirits, upon health, in the matter 
of resistance to disease, such as consumption, and in relation to motherhood, showed their 
wo^st in 191 5 j the blackest year in modern history — ghastly centenary year of Water 
Since then immense improvement has been wrought , notably contributing to the fact t 
infant mortality in iqi6, alike in England and Wales and Scotland, was by far the Iota 
ever recorded. We shall never go back to the pre-war or 191 5 state of tilings in this respi 
Never again shall we drink so much spirits, nor 
such strong spirits, nor any alcoholic liquors 
during so many hours of the twenty-four. 
Thus, as a strange result of the war, the whole 
standard of public health and efficiency will be 

standard of public health and efficiency v 
permanently raised. 





VOU honour me, but I am no prophet, and could not venture to feature 

* England in 1930. It seems to me that we are up against a most 

tremendous proposition, when forces may possibly arise to shatter all 

our hopes. Our destiny, the destiny of the Empire, is in the hollow of 

the working-man's hand, and unless his interests become Imperial he 

may imperil the outlook of our Empire — nay, he may possibly socialize 

it out of all recognition. The hand-worker has become invested with 

terrific political power, and he has yet to be trained in the right use 

of it. Meanwhile he receives little help and advice from those in high 

places, for they are all afraicf of him. Instead of telling him of his 

rh*,. r. H*t»e*. faults, political leaders offer him incense only. Like young wine, 

the hand-worker, inflated with new forces, may burst through that measure of self-restraint 

needed to fit him to be a wise ruler. 

It is the after-war bunch of propositions of which I am so much afraid. A brand-new 
series of industrial and social questions will have to be faced, and who will be the man to 
solve them for the salvation of the Empire ? Of course, one hopes for the best and puts 
one's trust in the strong common sense of one's country-folk ; but there is set up against 
our most ardent hopes possibilities which may disappoint them rudely and utterly. 

Moreover, I very much fear the country has broken away from the restraints of dogmatic 
religion ; and without some such clearly-defined religion how are men to bring their beastly 
passions to heel, and stand in the rear of their illegitimate aspirations ? Lay morality may 
serve its purpose when the heavens are serene and the sky is cloudless, but, under stress and 
storm of temptation and soul-tempest, lay morality will no more stand erect without dogma 
than a line of sweet-peas without its props. 

The England of 1930 will be what my friend the wage-earner makes it. If we educate 
him without the strong arm of God to lean on and the great Heart of God to draw upon, we 
may expect reeds broken in the rough storm of life. The weapon of knowledge is too dangerous 
an instrument to place in the hands of the rising genera- 
tion without the voice of God to direct it. We want to 
drill an army to hold up and defend our Empire, not 
to arm a mob to pull it down and bring it to naught. 


Vt/HAT will England be like in 1930 ? Who knows ? Between 
* * now and then we shall keep on doing things, reaching some 
temporary, ends, perhaps rightly, perhaps wrongly, good ends, bad 
and indifferent ones, according as we are directed or buffeted by 
circumstances, or as we direct ourselves, collectively, through our 
representative government, or individually. 

If without compensating financial concessions the Government takes 
from the many by inevitable £500,000,000 annual Budgets the means 
^^^ whereby they might live and prosper, and hands over these vast sums 

nt*. c. Hmrru. to tlie comparatively few in the process of reducing a quota of our 

£4,000,000,000 of War Debt, England will be a hard place to live in. 
The few resting on their laurels will invest their funds in income-producing securities through- 
out the world. The country will be gradually depleted of great factories and engaged com- 
ercially in the shipping of our choicest raw materials abroad for productive use elsewhere, 
•om a decreasing population, the vigorous youth, with their spirit of enterprise, will go to 
wer lands where work will pay better, where the burden of War Debt will not compel the 
.overnment to take so much of their earnings, where living will therefore be easier, the 
taring of a family a pleasure, and enterprise bring reward as well as responsibilities. 

If compensating financial concessions are made, not by the Government direct to the people, 
it through the bottle-neck of a private corporation, like the British Trade Bank Corporation, 
toch )s the method just instituted by the Government on the recommendation of " expert " 
lanciers, the outlook may be brighter to such an extent and no more as that small coterie of 
en may deem expedient. This coterie may be well-intenti,^ But human 



nature is frail and has limitations. Two heads are better than one 7 we know ? and a dozen heads 
may be better than two. But why restrain development to accord with the views of even a 
dozen bright men ? Tolls upon roads are out of date. A toll upon the road to prosperity, 
to be paid to a dozen men by forty-five million people, is in truth but a new tax to be paid 
for the privilege of earning the wherewithal to pay these Budgets of £500,000,000 per annum ; 
and one which will have the stultifying influence of all tolls. 

But if the compensating financial concessions are to be provided by the Government in 
such way that the people who have security to give may demand them as a right, undertaking 
to employ them for productive purposes alone, then production will abound, the means to 
consume will multiply, the demand for labour will solve all problems of wages and 
employment, freedom to finance will inaugurate free- 
dom to trade , to pay our debts , to live and to ■ J& &- yrf 
prosper, for financial oligarchy will have given place C^o^v/^^^^»%K^C 
to financial" democracy, ^ 


VOU have asked me to give my opinion, but it is extremely difficult 
' to make a forecast, because the war is still with us with all its 
attendant horrors and de range me nts, and no one can say how it will 
end. Nevertheless, there are many significant signs of the times 
which show a definite trend towards certain developments which can 
hardly be diverted from their inevitable fulfilment. 

England herself will occupy, I think, a relatively less important 
position in the firmament of Empire. She will remain the centre or 
heart of our vast system of free democracies, but the Dominions 
phrth mudt ,f />*. w iM have a far greater share in the vital decisions which affect the 

whole Empire, not only on account of the role they have played in 
the war, but also lie cause the balance of wealth and of population will have largely shifted 
to the outlying portions of our Empire- In 1930 Parliament will surely be decent raiized, and 
we shall have an Imperial Assembly, which will meet once annually to deal with all Imperial 
questions. This Assembly will, I hope, be chosen by selection from the various existing 
Constitutional Assemblies, with the power of adding eminent men who may not be actually 
members of any elected House, A permanent Committee will be maintained in London, 

In spite of Mr. Wells, I believe the Monarchy will still he with us, for the very excellent 
reasons I shall not reiterate which were laid down by General Smuts in his admirable address, 
But it will not be exactly the Monarchy we know now, It will have to be brought up to date 
and shorn of a great many useless forms and formulas, The bed of weeds which has grown 
up round the Throne almost conceals the central symbolic figure from view. The snobbishness 
must go and the antiquated etiquette must be modified. The personal entourage of the King 
should be chosen from the very best brains in the country, whose duty it will be, not as in 
the past to stand as a barrier against the unwelcome inroads of democracy, but to bring the 
King and his people into closer touch. 

Then there is the question of selecting Queens in the future. I think we shall see in 1930 
a lady of Anglo-Saxon birth as the prospective queen-consort, I hope in 1930 the Prince ef 
Wales will be a General. Why is he still a captain, engaged on some petty job, when the 
German princes are commanding armies, and making their personalities known for better or 
for worse throughout the world ? 

Perhaps the gravest issue of 1930 will be the feminist one. If we go on losing men at the 
present rate in our efforts to pierce the Hindenburg line* and if the war lasts another yi t 
we shall have reduced the vitality of our manpower to deplorable lengths. Meanwhile, : 
brain- pow r er and independence of the female sex is ever increasing, and man is being 
placed. Thus for some years after the war the balance will not be restored, and we shal y 
through a period of freak legislation and social restrictions which will render life aln ; 
unbearable. But about 1930 a younger generation of mankind will be reaching matur , 
and I think we shall see the great counter-attack of man against woman to get hack his c 
ascendancy, and also to check what is known in Australia as u Wowserisrn " ( l( Wow< ' 
imitation of a street cur baying the moon), the most dreadful an J depressing fate that I 


fall on anv free community. 


We shall not know England ih 1930 as we knew her before the war. Happy-go-lucky, 
irresponsible, with the divergent political elements ever quarrelling in public, but, generally 
ready to meet at a dinner- table, a fancy-dress ball, or a private party. In 1930 we shall be 
lifted out of ourselves, so to speak. In 1930 we shall have learnt the relative importance of 
domestic, foreign, and Imperial questions. We shall be saner, but life will have lost much of 
its old charm. Democracy does not make for the comfort of the few at the expense of the 
many. With the smashing of the Huns, the last barrier of servitude, both national and 
domestic, is swept away. The Servant Question will become acute, and the housewife will 
live to curse the day that discipline was destroyed in the cause of liberty. For years we 
shall groan under almost unbearable taxation. Old family estates will have to be broken up. 
I think the law of primogeniture will go, and small estates will become the order of the day. 
Marriage laws will have to be changed if we are to get back our lost population. Sport and 
pleasure will be modified. We shall find ourselves in a world of realities made absolutely necessary 
by the awful strain imposed on us by the war. All the old trappings of medievalism will 
have disappeared. Titles will be limited 
to those who have performed some great 
service to the State. The highest posi- 
tions in the Government round the 
Throne will be open to merit alone and 
to the competition of the entire nation. 

> t € 4^/0>%' 


ENGLAND in thirteen years' time ! It will take at least five years 
*■* for the country to regain its normal condition. No accessions of 
territory are sought by us, and none are required. The war has 
been, and will continue to be, a great leveller, and at its conclusion 
we shall have up to 1930 and onwards a fusion of classes, due to 
men of all ranks fighting for ye^rs shoulder to shoulder and facing 
death together. The war is a terrible furnace, but British steel is 
being forged through it which will make England greater than ever. 
When the vast Army comes home, it will know how to deal with 
the ignoble and traitorous pacifists, the cowardly conscientious$. objectors, and the pro- Germans, and these will have to hide 

their diminished heads for ever. Never again must we be caught napping; had we 
been prepared for war the insolent braggart of Germany would not have dared to go to 
war. We must have a National Army, which will be our bulwark against the attack of 
an infamous Germany again. There is all that is good and nothing that is bad in national 
service, and Lord Roberts, who was abused and gibed at by miserable and dishonest 
politicians, was but too right when he warned the Government and people that Germany 
would strike when she felt her hour had come. In 1930 we shall, then, have a National Army, 
in which every sound young man will have to serve. This alone, by bringing all classes together, 
will keep down the luxury, ostentation, the hypocrisy and snobbishness, which have been far 
too much in vogue in England. It is too much to hope that our political system will be 
reformed ; it is most pitiful for a great Empire like ours. As Carlyle somewhat too strongly 
put it once to Lord Wolseley, " It is indeed a sad thing that this great Empire should be 
governed by six hundred talking jackasses at Westminster/ 1 

finally, our Monarchy in 1930 will be as firm as ever. Some silly persons have been talking 
lately of the Republic they say we ought to have. If we were ever mad enough to listen to such 
p< licious rubbish India and the Colonies would break away from the Mother Country, and 
ri tly so. Royalty is the keystone of the Empire ; take it away, and the Empire falls into 
pi es. The Maharajah of Bikanir expressed his views very strongly on this subject during 
hi late visit to us. The attitude of our King and Queen during the war has been perfect ; 
tl Prince of Wales has endeared himself to the whole Army, with whom he has shared their 
pi Is and hardships. He has shown the highest qualities and a total absence of " side." 
\\ i be to those self-seeking demagogues who aim at the institution of a Republic in Great 
B am ! The Army, now no small voluntary force but a national one, will know how to deal 
w: * them. In short, in 1930 the Monarchy will be firmer established than ever in the hearts 
of ^eople j the country will have a great National Army ; there will be great sympathy 


between different classes of the people, and pacifists, strike-pro mote rs, conscientious objectors, 
and the internal enemies of England, so rampant now even in Parliament s will have disappeared, 
or will be afraid to show themselves as such. 

This will have been the result of this terrible .war with its awful toll from the flower of the 
youth and manhood of the Empire, But these precious lives will not luve been sacrificed in 
vain ; f or 3 in the first place, owing to them, the most infamous tyranny of German y, the wont 
the world ever saw, will have been crushed, and England, purged through the fiery ordeal of 
the war, will be in 1930 less pleasure- 
seeking, more serious, and more conscious 
of the responsibility which rests upon 
every Briton to preserve the integrity 
and safety of our glorious Empire. 

u&neu, ariu ^ngianu, purgea mrougn xne nery ordeal c 


A COUNTRY governed by its whole adult population, men and 
** women, a population which has at last realized the supreme 
value of a genuine Education, and has set itself to this one task 
first (as before the deluge the one task was to make and to accumulate 
money) } to train every child, physically, mentally, and morally, to 
develop all its social and serviceable possibilities. In 1930 England 
has learned several tilings from the war, which she, in common svith 
the other nations } is seeking to realize. She has at last learned that 
the word Democracy, which she once scorned and loathed, means the 
union of all nations and men in a genuine human family. She has 
photo. Eiiiott d t*r V . seen t ] iat m jijt arv an( j naval preparations, to serve a nationalist 

individualism, lead inevitably to a disaster, which must become worse as the area of the 
civilized world increases. Accordingly slip, in concert with the other nations, is seeking 
security for herself, and a proper development of her powers and resources,, by cultivating 
cordial relations and a spirit of cooperation with other nations. The broken Prussian idol, 
which was demolished in the war, has left the kindred Teutonic peoples to be the foremost 
in this great Truce of God. 

She has seen also what could be done by a State organized for war, and by the use of the 
wealth of individuals for a common end j and she has therefore applied the principle of organiza- 
tion, and employment of the nation's wealth for the nation's good, to a carefully- conceived 
plan of social reform and internal development. The keynote of public life is "an equal chance 
for all," and while no individual is extravagantly rich, none is 

degrading poor. The distribution of wealLlris no longer an <TO ,/ / S /?-. / 
impossible desideratum, but a progressive achievement. JT%H^t4^ J ^T^^TVPn 


^gtk Bj^^ Ia/HAT should England be like in 1930 if the lessons of this great 

^k Ik * * time in history are not neglected ? 

M A England should be a really federated Empire, with all branches 

M K^. 1 ■ sharing in its management. The vision of a great central Parliament. 

dealing only with affairs of Imperial moment., should be realized 

|A I I through the union that lias grown up during the war, 

V W We here at home have learnt the value of the Dominions beyond 

^B Hfe M^F the seas. Those Dominions have had deepened within them tleir 

^^^ ^ ^^F affection for the old Motherland, and they realize the grander 

ihoto^Rjhiitw* °^ SLSk Empire in which each associated country is free in all 

its internal management f and yet in which every part is prepa-ed 

to live and die for the common whole. 

It is obvious that if such a vision is to lie realized, Parliament, as at present constittf rf, 
will have to make some fresh arrangements as to local matters. The congested condition of 
our Lower House at present prevents well-considered legislation from being carried thromtu 
Home Rule within the Empire must in some way or other be accomplished. 

England in 1930 should have employer and empjQyfflWOTJItgifi m hg&rty co-operation. 'Tie 


war has taught us that the promotion of the well-being of those who have made any contract the 
one with the other should be the care of all concerned. The wiser men on the side of Capital and 
the side of Labour know that to be dissociated the one from the other means the injury of both. 

England in 1930 should, socially, be a land in which those who desired to live luxurious 
lives sftould receive the contempt of their fellows. We have learnt that slackness, indifference, 
self-pleasing, are curses in citizenship. The cumberers of the ground must be uprooted. 
Democracy must be a real thing, beloved by all, and its teachings practised by all. The 
fear which is in some of our hearts is lest, after the war, with all its energy and devotion, 
people should revert to languor ; and it is against this danger that active steps will have, no 
doubt, to be taken. 

Englaiid in 1930 should, religiously, be a country in which all the expressions of Christianity 
should be moved by the desire to combine for the promotion of the general good. No one 
need desire to change the individuality of any Christian believer, and to cramp him in regard 
to the details which he may cherish, but we shall never have a nation moved in its corporate 
action by high spiritual motives so long as there is wrangling between the various sects. 
The opportunity of the Church is going to be magnificent, and if it will take the lead in 
bringing together all denominations for 
the common service of the whole land 
it will produce, even by 1930, a nobler 
nation than our beloved country has 
ever been. 


LT will Great Britain be like in 1930 ? That is a tremendous 
challenge to the guessing mind. It depends, as indeed the whole 
future of the world depends, upon the ideas that prevail in the 
peace settlement that must come somewhen before the end of 
next year. These are creative days. What men have the courage 
to think and decide to-day will become hard fact for centuries 
ahead. And there are two main sets of ideas struggling for 
predominance now in men's minds, one of which leads plainly 
to human welfare and the other to an ever fnore destructive 
struggle for life. The first group looks to a sinking of private 
interests in public service and to a sinking of national sovereignty 
in some form of world-unity, a League of Nations, the United States of the World, the 
World Kingdom of God; there are many such phrases, ringing the changes on the 
one central idea of world-unity. With it gS naturally ideas of universal (not partial) 
free trade, of a world control of shipping, of a world control of natural resources and the like. 
With it, too, go ideas of universal education, of that universal participation in the ideas of 
government which is called " democracy/' and of a universal sharing of the burthen of labour. On 
the other hand is the second group of ideas, ideas of national jealousy, of suspicious sovereignty, 
of the cut-throat competition of peoples and races, of loyalty to little monarchies and traditions, 
tyranny over " inferior " peoples, discipline for u labour," and disloyalty to mankind. Many of 
us British seem to be tremendously obsessed by a narrow conception of our so-called " Empire " 
and by the idea of making it into a close system, knit by high tariffs and financial and transit 
manipulation, against the outer world. That is the path of death. If we broaden our views 
from " Empire " to " League," then in 1930 we may be, with our American kindred, with 
th- Latins and the Russians, leading mankind into a new age. The world may be already 
la ;ely disarmed ; it may have recovered altogether from the vast wastes and exertions of 
th >e war years ; it may be such a scene of hopeful activity and human happiness as only 
U pians have dreamt of hitherto. But if we cling to the old mean Imperialist dream, then 
th " British Empire " in 1930, heavily armed, heavily ruled, monstrously taxed, and with 
ea jperating tariffs and maddening obstacles stuck in the path of every other State's prosperity, 
w be drifting towards the role that German militarist Imperialism plays to-day, as an intolerable 
m >ance to mankind. Internationalism or Imperialism; 
th se are the alternatives. I, myself, am far too deeply / . <~^ > / 
in olved in these disputes to be able to guess which side </ / «, V ^sJl^S* 
is ~ — ing. But it is plain which side I want to win. UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN ^^ 










The Temporary Heir. 


Illustrated hy ^Warwick Reynolds, 

realized that he was awake ; it 
was not a nightmare that held 
his great limbs immovable and 
constricted his chest until each 
breath was an achievement. He 
recognized his surroundings — ■ 
the shanty wall of rough planks 
with glimmering cracks, the roof overhead of 
corrugated sheet-iron, the greenish glass of a lamp 
bowl on the rickety table ; above all he knew the 
rank, soapy smell of the copra stored in the next 
room. This w-as no dream* He wag dying. 

" Paralyzed I" he thought* un terrified. He 
attempted to move his head. At first he "fancied 
he had succeeded. When he was sure he had not, 
lie took up the difficult business of breathing 
once more. Captain Ames, who had never yet 
called himself beaten, was not going to yield to 
death until he had finished his business. And on 
the very eve of his accomplish me ut he was sud- 
detdy arrested by the cold hand of Death, He 
could not personally enjoy the victor's triumph. 
He must send a messenger into the promised 
land which he was not to see. 

He wondered who it would be who was tg 
come and find him dying. Peterson, his dauntless, 
soulless lieutenant ? Wilks, his cringing slave ? 
Or would it i*e, after all, Hendricks ? 

'Hie tropic sun flooded the bare room with 
yellow light ; the open doorway was a blinding 
oblong to his dimming eyes. He waited patiently, 
enduring the pain of the glare, because he knew 
that when the opening w r as closed by a shadow 
his watch would be ended, and he would be aware 
who it was to whom he was to confide his final 
piece of business — and the girl. 

So T wondering which of the three Fate would 
bring first to his door, he composed himself. 

When the opening was obscured, Captain Ames 
knew who it was who was entering. No one but 
Hendricks would have dared come in without a 
preliminary question or excuse. 

The new-comer merely glanced at the bulky 
form on the cot and stepped boldly across the 
room to a cupboard. The key hung in the lock. 
He opened it and drank heartily out of a bottle. 
Then he turned and met Ames's glance. For 
a minute the two men, as of old, fought for the 
mastery, but it was Captain Ames who now 
closed his eyes, in spite of himself. When he 

opened them again, he saw that Hendricks under- 
stood something had happened. 

Ames carefully framed the word, " Dying t " 

The other bent over him thoughtfully, not it 
all surprised. Then he remarked casually, 
" Paralyzed t " 

" Dying I,** tile Captain repeated, irascibly, 
fearing that his utterance might' fail him 4 . But 
Hendrick sseemed to catch the word perfectly, 
and nodded again. 

" I sec/' he said. '* Creeping paralysis. Caught 
your legs first, and is working up. You called it 
gout, didn't you ? Well, you can still talk. What 
do you want to say ? " 

iS There is a girl in Ban Francisco. Address in 
my log-book. The will in Honolulu. The pearls 
in my belt/' 

il Ah, the residuary legatee/ 1 Hendricks re- 
turned, still leaning over the motionless figure. 
* v You expect me to sail your schooner to the 
coast and turn everything over to the girl, 1 see." 

Ames thrice repeated a simple, sibilant '* Yes " 

Hendricks straightened up and smiled with 
the easy cynicism which had always marked htm 
in Ames's mind as a soul unsubdued. * c And what 
is to prevent my running off with the schooner 
and the pearls ? Nothing at all/' 

For a lonR instant the two men's eyes met again 
Suddenly Ames said, in a pacific manner, " Yoii 
are honest/* 

" Am I ? * r demanded Hendricks, calmly. 

u Honest/' affirmed the dying man. w Every 
fault but dishonesty, Vou will take everything 
to the address/' 

" Sure ! " was the sardonic answer, " As a 
matter of fact, 1 am honest. That doesn't alter 
the fact, you know. You stole my schooner and 
my pearls. That kind of makes me entitled to 
your packet and your pearls, doesn't it ? " 

Captain Ames did not wince. 

" I got "em away from you fair enough,' he 
said. r They're mine. I intended all alon * to 
take my stuff back to her. You rtever undcrsfo od ; 
I was strong enough to be " — -he seeme( to 
hesitate for some adjective more applicabl ■ to 
his secret character — TH what you called ' Ki ler P 
Ames, And I was strong enough to know nJieti 
I'd got what T wanted and quit all this and -gP 
back. You understand now ? " 

Hendricks 5. mouth became a little firmer. 

UNlVffiSlt^OPfffl€l*is.TJ Voo,d 8" back ■** 



the blood on your hands and never let on that 
you weren't a saint. Well ? " 

" I haven't given up yet," was the response, 
in an unruffled tone. " I know I'm dying. But 
the schooner and the pearls go back to her." 

For a moment the motionless man breathed 
hastily and determinedly. When he spoke again, 
it was not so distinctly. 

" I'D do you a good turn, Hendricks, in spite 
of yourself. I beat you fairly once. Now I'll 
make you honest, in spite of yourself." His 
undimmed eyes met the other's with absolute 
firmness. " It'll be the making of you. Hendricks." 

Something of the dying man's indomitable 
spirit seemed to infuse these words with a vitality 
that survived his own. For while his eyes remained 
open, apparently gazing at something, Hendricks 
recognized the final incident and closed them. 
Having done so, he stepped back, repeating, 
" The making of me, did he say ? The red- 
handed pirate ! " He had recourse to the cup- 
board, sipping his liquor with an expression in 
which his ordinary attitude of leisurely con- 
templation was accentuated. He did not even 
raise his eyes when another figure loomed in the 
doorway and a husky voice said, ingratiatingly, 
" Captain Ames, I'd like a sup of the rum, sir." 

"The skipper is asleep," Hendricks said, 
quietly, and passed the bottle out. The other 
drank quickly, and shook his head. " The old 
man is getting wonderfully drowsy lately," he 

" So he is, Peterson," Hendricks returned, in 
a low tone. " Where's Wilks ? " 

" Cooking breakfast." 

" So ? Let's have some coffee." 

The two men went out, glancing from habit 
at the schooner at anchor in the bay, a small 
expanse of water fledged with wind-riven palms. 

" Captain told me last night to see to it that 
the water-casks were filled this morning," the 
mate remarked. As there was no response, he 
continued: "He's going to sail pretty soon." 

" Very likely. I'll go back after a while. He 
wants me to make out some papers for him." 

" That means Honolulu and the mail, anyway," 
the mate said, briskly. " Well, that's good news, 
for sure." 

Neither said more as they joined a small, 
grey-haired man who was cooking something over 
an oil stove precariously balanced on a box under 
a palm tree. This individual gave them no 
greeting whatever, but merely pointed to a coffee- 
pot on the sand. It was evident that he was 
making an omelet. From his air of listening, 
the ' knew that he was preparing breakfast for 
Ca in Ames. 

y each ate a couple of biscuits and drank 
a c ^ of muddy coffee. Then Peterson gave up 
his ittempt at breakfast in disgust. "I'll have 
am her sup out of the old man's bottle," he 
rer rked, surlily. 

'U bring it to you," Hendricks volunteered. 
" I won't miss it. He'll think he finished it 
hiu elf last night." 

1 entered the room where the body lay 
an< .rought the bottle out, with every appear- 
an< t v**ing careful not to awaken a sleeping 

brute. Then he watched the mate roll away down 
the beach, bawling to the Kanakas on the schooner 
to come and fetch him aboard. When the whale- 
boat had been in and was well on its way back, 
Hendricks strolled across the sand to where the 
fidgeting Wilks doddered over his omelet in a 
perfect doldrums of doubt and fear. 

" Don't worry," Hendricks said, calmly. " I'll 
take his breakfast to the skipper." 

Wilks fairly tumbled over his own incapable 
feet to be rid of the task. His voice quavered 
in a whisper: " I jest hate to take it to him 
this time. He's slept late, and that al'ays means 
his temper " 

"Yes, yes," Hendricks put in. "But I'll 
take it to him this time. Don't shake so." As 
he turned away he spoke over his shoulder, 
" Better be ready to get aboard to-day." 

Back within the shelter of the shanty Hendricks 
put the food down and surveyed the grim form 
on the cot. Ames was an oppressive figure, even 
in death. His austere visage had lost nothing 
of its implacability. It would require eternity to 
soften the lineaments which time had hardened. 
Hendricks drew the yellowed sheet over the 
corpse. Then he thrust his two hands beneath 
it, fumbled a moment, and drew out a broad, 
soft leather belt, which he laid on the table 
beside a log-book, scrawled all over with the 
blunt reckonings of the dead man. 

" I suppose that temporarily I'm the sole heir 
and executor," Hendricks murmured, aloud. 
" Let's see what's in the estate." 

The belt disclosed a varied assortment of 
valuables, a couple of hundred pounds in English 
notes, a dozen sovereigns, a twenty-dollar gold 
piece, a poor emerald, a cigarette case sealed 
with tape and wax, and a plain gold band. 

" Looks like a wedding-ring," Hendricks sur- 
mised aloud, and passed on to the consideration 
of a thin packet of papers. They included certain 
ship's documents and a bill of exchange tor two 
thousand dollars made out to " Captain George 
Hendricks." This he scowled over. 

" Now, why didn't he forge my endorsement 
and cash it ? " he demanded of the still room. 
He recalled the day when Ames had despoiled 
him of it, that day when George Hendricks ceased 
to be a shipowner and master, lost his connection 
with the outside world and became the poorly 
paid associate of Killer Ames. He put the draft 
in his pocket. Then he cut the tape about the 
cigarette case and allowed the contents to escape 
from their cottony nest to the rough top of the 

For a quarter of an hour Hendricks looked v at 
the pearls lying heaped before him — the spoils 
of rapine, treachery, and ruthless bloodshed. 
Finally he swept the whole lot back into their 
receptacle with a laugh. 

" Not worth a dollar \ " he told the silent 
one. " You're dead and they're dying. You 
were fooled at the last, in spite of your smooth- 
ness, Killer Ames ! You'd have gone to that 
girl and boasted of your riches, and when you 
came to show 'em. down, they'd have been just 

d oi d <Jd a tPp p ^# 0FH|t |fffG ^ the murder 



But he neglected the log-book's secrets to 
consider this catastrophe. He knew that the 
pearls had been perfect, worth a hundred 
thousand dollars. How had they spoiled ? 
What had made them die ? 

Like all pearl-fishers, Hendricks was super- 
stitious. He knew a thousand tales about 
these frail, precious jewels of the sea. But 
never had he heard of a whole treasure of pearls 
losing their brilliancy and their life at once, 
in a short time. What was the explanation ? 
He gave up the problem and accepted the fact, 
feeling a sudden, profound contempt for Ames. 
The man was nothing at all, really — just as much 
a fool as others. Witness his cherishing a lot 
of worthless pearls and babbling about " going 
back" and "the girl." 

He understood perfectly that his own affair 
was ended. No money in the estate for himself. 
But Ames had spoken of a will in Honolulu. 
He had^-very likely a mere empty document. 
The girl wouldn't get much. 

He meditated over her. Who was she ? 
How had she met Ames ? What did she know 
about him ? And had a pretty woman, too, 
actually fallen under the man's spell ? What 
a joke to go to her in San Francisco and give her 
these rotten pearls, as Ames's bequest ! It would 
be splendid revenge on the Killer. 

He realized that he had laughed long and 
loud, when there was a sound of footsteps 
outside the house. He started up and went 
to the door. Standing there, he turned his 
face inwards again and called in a bantering 
tone : " It's Wilks, Captain. Shall I let him 
have a drink ? " Then he bent his sardonic 
gaze on the shuffling man hesitating a dozen 
feet away. 

" I sh'd like liquor," quavered Wilks, darting 
a glance of pure hatred at the wall between him 
and his enemy. 

Hendricks nodded coldly and withdrew, 
knowing well that he would venture no nearer. 
He came out with a freshly -opened bottle, handed 
it over and said : " Captain Ames wants you 
to go aboard and stay there." 

The old man blinked. Then his lips parted 
in a mirthless grin. " I nearly killed him once, 
when I had drunk plenty," he whispered, almost 
boastfully. " Huh ! Is that the way he feels ? " 
He drank avidly. " He's afraid of old Wilks 
when I'm drunk. He hotter be ! " 

Alone once more, Hendricks picked up the 
log-book and addressed the corpse. " All 
right, I'll just take the schooner and this stuff . 
to San Francisco," he said, tauntingly. " You 
thought you'd get ahead of me again. But 
what'll the dame say to your rotten pearls ? 
Hey ? I'll laugh when I see her face. Oh, 
yes I I'm honest, am I ? I'm too honest for 
your peace of mind, by heavens ! " 

Without further ado he packed the contents 
of the belt, the log-book, and a couple of bottles 
frorn the cupboard into an old carpet-bag which 
Ames had always affected, nodded to the sheeted 
form, and went out. 

" So ends this cruise." he announced, glancing 
over the desert island. " Now, Mr. Peterson, 

I don't like you. I don't need you. and I won't 
have you." He let his finger rest on the butt 
of the revolver in his belt, and smiled. A 
quarter of a mile away, he saw the mate over- 
seeing the loading of the filled water-casks. 
Much nearer was a dinghy into which Wilks 
was huddling some small cooking-gear, stopping 
now and then to inflame his senile blood with 
renewed draughts from the bottle. Hendricks 
strode down upon him, tossed the carpet-t>ag 
into the bottom of the boat, and said, curtly ; 
" The old man says to put that in his cabin. 
Better get away, now. He's coming out pretty 
soon. We sail in an hour." 

Wilks bent his acrimonious gaze on the voting 
man's well-set-up figure, and snarled an assent. 

" 'Nd, if I was as young as you, I'd never 
sail with him again," he muttered. " Killer 
Amesv is he ? Some day " 

Hendricks answered with an easy laugh. 
" All right, Papa. Talk as much as you like. 
But you'd better stir your pins." 

" I was Cap'n Wilks once," was the trembling 
reply. " No matter now." He thrust the 
little craft off the beach with unexpected strength 
in his meagre muscles, and sculled away. 

When Peterson glanced up after examining 
the hoops of the last barrel and stamping the 
bung in with his heel, he saw Hendricks close 
by, and asked, thickly : " When's the old man 
coming off ? " 

Hendricks did not immediately answer. The 
sweat started out on his forehead. His fingers 
clutched the butt of his revolver. A swift 
glance at the Kanakas told him that with the 
uncanny sensitiveness of their race they expected 
something extraordinary to happen. Now was 
his time to complete what had begun when 
Ames died. One shot — -it seemed as if he heard 
the explosion ! — and Peterson, the brute, would 
also be out of his way. Hendricks had never 
killed a man. . It was a weakness. He suddenly 
turned away and answered the question. 

" Pretty soon, Mr. Peterson. He wishes 
you to stow the water and get your anchor 
clear. Send the boat off for us when you are 

Hendricks watched the boat slip over the 
glassy surface of the little bay until it entered 
the shadow of the schooner. Then he retired 
and went quietly into the shanty. 

Nothing is so fatal to one's self-esteem as to 
find that the execution of a plain purpose is 
impossible because of one's inherent weakness. 
Hendricks's course of action lay before him, 
too plain for debate. After two years of what 
had been nothing less than real servitude to a 
man who had filched his worldly goods and his 
self-respect therewith, he was unexpectedly 
set free by Ames's sudden death. What simpler 
than to take the Killers schooner in lieu of the 
one he had lost, appropriate Ames's property 
as slight repayment for his own, and so depart 
for the coast and there destroy the illusion which 
Ames had laboured to establish in the mind and 
heart of some woman ? Simple and safe. All that 
stood beictfe him and the secure accomplishment 
of tills was Peterson. And wLon he had seen that 



misshapen visage and heard those gross tones 
and felt the soulless strength of the man, Hen 
dricks had been unable to kill him, though reason 
urged and memory justified the act. Looking 
wrathfuliy at the form on the cot, he said, 
" You're right, I've got fust one virtue, and 
that's weak, pitting honesty." 

He went down to the beach, where the mate 
TOs just coming ashore* M The skipper has 
decided not to sail till midnight/' Hendricks 
lied, " He says there ought to be a breeze 
then ; that will save us towing the schooner 
through the pass. He wants you to stay aboard, 
I'm to stay here, and we'll be off after dark." 

The mate laughed , his ugly face to the cloud- 
less sky. M I bet you t " * he rumbled. "I 
know when the old man gets a notion. He's 
taking his rum regular, as he always docs when 

by an inarticulate rumbling tone which trailed 
off into another gust of bellowing hilarity- 

" Wilks running amuck/' he thought. 
44 Peterson probably merely clamped him in 
his arms and squeezed the breath out of him/' 

He was certain of this when he saw a figure 
which could be that of no one but Wilks scramble 
overside into the dinghy and put towards shore. 
A brief glance at him as he disembarked on the 
sand told him that the old man was in a. kind 
of stupor, barely cognizant of his surroundings. 

It was absolutely dark when Hendricks at 
last staggered down the beach with the body in 
his arms. As he eased it into the bottom of 
the boat, he peered at Wilks search ingly. The 
old man merely mumbled and mechanically 
took the oars. 

They approached the vessel's side quietly. 



he's bound for port at last. All right ; I take 
some, too." 

Hendricks drew out a key and handed it over, 
ri It's to the skipper's locker on board. Help 
yourself. Better give Wilks some, too," 

" Wilks ? " grinned the mate, almost dosing 
h" dull eyes. " Hoho ! Papa Wilks is sharp- 
ri ig his knives already. He's fair murderous 
n- r . Hoho I " Peterson's hilarious bellow rang 
01 over the lagoon. As the smiling sailors 
p ed slowly for the schooner, the lonely man 
«■■ the beach heard again and again the terrific 
rr ■ of that laughter, pealing to the empty sky, 
guffaws of mindless might at the petty 
m ""ngs of & thin soul in torment. 

I sundown Hendricks heard no more from 
t> schooner — except towards dark, when he 
ti jht the acrimonious babble of a voice which 
^ i™- w tG be the old man's ; it was followed 

There was no hail from the deck. Hendricks 
hauled the dinghy alongside and clambered up 
softly. Not. a sailor was to be seen. Peterson 
was asleep on a long chair on the poop. 

Finding all clear for his last act, Hendricks 
went down into the little boat and again picked 
up the body. By incredible exertions and 
aided by Wilks, who mumbled something about 
the captain's being drunk, he got what had been 
Killer Ames on deck and thence down into the 
cabin. Here he dismissed his assistant, and 
single dianded completed his task of getting the 
corpse securely into Ames's berth. 

When he had closed the door on it, he steadied 
himself with a long pull at a bottle on the table, 
token of Peterson's activities, and went forward 
to stir out the crew Within half an hour the 
anch< j r was , . cajtheaxj pel r an d . .the m sen ooner was 

slipping 'iuen 

the pass. 




Hendricks steered carefully for the narrow open- 
ings between the low banks till the ebb tide 
caught the vessel and hurried her onward, and 
the breeze outside filled her sails as she bore 
, away to the north. He then cleared the decks, 
taking occasion on his rounds to look into the 
half-deck cabin upon Wilks, who was huddled 
on his bed, staring*into space. 
. When the island* was only a thickening of 
the horizon behind him, Hendricks wakened 
Peterson, who seemed to be past comprehension 
of anything, but managed to keep his feet and 
stand his watch for an hour. 

" He won't suspect anything," Hendricks 
thought, with satisfaction. " But I must get 
him wide awake ; otherwise he'll not believe 
the old man is aboard." 

He effected his purpose by taking the wheel 
and jibing the schooner. When he had her on 
her course again and had picked Peterson out 
of the scuppers, where he had been knocked 
by the swinging boom, he shook him angrily. 

" You're a pretty seaman I " he growled in 
his ear. " What will the skipper say ? Wake 
up, you fool ! " 

Peterson rubbed his aching head and gradually 
realized his plight. " I was sound asleep," 
he grumbled, 

" You were," Hendricks said, in a loud whisper. 
The old man saw you^ and he laughed." 

The mate's sodden face sobered instantly. 
" Laughed, did he ? " he responded, in a husky 
murmur. " Laughed ? My God ! " 

'* What are you going to do about it ? " 
Hendricks demanded, enjoying the feeling that 
this uncouth brute could be cowed by a mere 
suggestion that his master was preparing punish- 
ment for him, 

Peterson shuddered and turned his wry face 
to his companion with a piteous expression on 
it. " He's a devil," he gurgled. " He laughed, 
you say ? The last time Killer Ames laugh* d 
was when — • — " His eyes seemed to start from 
his head at a vision. Then he drew back, over- 
come with nausea. Hendricks listened to his 
unsteady footfalls as he walked back and forth 
on the little deck, and his own face darkened. 
He had heard of a time when Ames laughed. 
It was not a voracious report mouthed over a 
drink, nor gcssip, nor a tale told for the tale- 
bearing ; it was a mere whisper, concluding 
with a fa ; nt " — Killer Ames 'augl'ed." He 
went below. 

Sitting on his bunk in the stuffy room which 
had confined his activities for so long, he struggled 
to drive the phantasmic horror from his mind. 
Well enough he knew the air he had breathed 
while associated with Ames had been filled with 
this same mysterious miasma ; time and again 
he had seen other men choked by some invisible 
and subtle poison emanating from the man's 
simple presence. His own easy cynicism had 
saved him. He hadn't really allowed himself 
to perceive the truth of the Killer's monstrous 
tyranny, that it was founded on a past so dark 
that the very flame of Ames's passion had cast 
a shadow. Now he felt the awe which other men 
felt, the unreasoning dread which cowed even 

the gross and senseless Peterson. It seemed to 
him* that Death itself had drawn back at th* 
last moment-— he leaped up wildly. What ? 
Not dead ? No ! There was a sound behind 
that closed door! The corpse was stirring, 
was fumbling at the yellow sheet. With starting 
eyeballs Hendricks peered into the gloom of the 
cabin — hearing that muffled and terrible sound 
of an unholy resurrection. 

He could not discern anything in the shadow— 
except a hand that seemed to materialize yellow- 
ishly, clutching for the door-knob. But this 
hand was outside. He watched it. dumbly* 
Then his blurred eyes cleared. He saw Wilks. 

The old man was seized with no vile physical 
passion now. His transfigured face suddenly 
became plainly to be seen, and it told of a purpose 
so bleak that it was unearthly. His bright eyes 
glittered ; his grey lips were parted as if in 
triumphant aspiration. He was making for 
the- blank door behind which Killer Ames lay 
concealed. He reached it, turned the knob 
noiselessly, entered, closed the door behind him. 

Hendricks leaned forward and waited, his 
temple resounding to the dull throb of the heart. 
The door was opening again — swung wide. A 
dark and shadowy shape emerged and slipped 
away. Hendricks still stared at the half-open 

He roused himself only when the mate clumped 
down the steps and came over to him and peered 
at him with bloodshot eyes and whispered : 
" Hendricks ! Come up and stand the watch 
with me." 

" Air right," was the response. " Have you 
got the bugaboos too ? " 

Petersen wiped his slavering lips on the back 
of his hand and glanced fearfully over his shoulder 
at the captain's door. When he saw that it 
was not closed, he cringed. He seemed on the 
point of hysterical speech, but Hendricks, his 
own nerves tingling, seized him by the arm and 
led him back on deck. 

" Pull yourself together, man," he said, 

" Is th' old man awake?" 

Hendricks fixed his eyes on the bright stars 
burning in the sky. Was it time to tell the 
truth ? He felt Peterson's groping fingers on 
his arm. He laughed, pointed upward with a 
strange gesture. 

" I guess he's awake," he said. " I hear 
him laughing." 

The mate's fleshy finger dribbled on his 
sleeve. " Laughing ? " 

" At Wilks." 

Peterson's voice fell to a mutter. He drew 
his companion out of earshot of the man at 
the wheel, to whisper a secret. 

" He better be careful of old Wilks," he said, 
thickly. " Wilks is dangerous. I'm afraid of him 
— I'm afraid of Billy Wilks that was, before Killer 
Ames stole his wife and marooned Billy on an atoll. 
Three years Billy was on that there island, Billy 
that feared neither God nor man nor devil till 
Ames came along. ' You was never afraid of any- 
body,' I remarks to Cap'm Ames one day, ' except 
Billy Wilks, iTA^drAfj^-^fc ara<i sound on that 



I Ames looks 
at me and laughs, 
e, I 
forgot Billy/ 
he, and he up 
and changed the 
and marie 
atoll. Old 
ts on the 
1 smeary 
g and 
handling a knife, 
says the 
j for- 
■u Haw'tfe 
you been ? ' The 
old boy held up 
de and 
quavered " I kept 
harp two j 
ght you with, 
it away or 
Lys Ames, 
iard/ Old 
Billy scrawncd his 
kt and ca- 
re s my wi 
And the skipper lie 
A him 
and J lips, 

* The lady 

it " lamb 
m " ? ' he 


Ames just 

And Billy 

i that was, and 

had made fun on 

his own qu 

with his wife 
died her little 
names like she was 
a child, 1 

and came over 

tiie side and has 

t you 

imnow, But " 

'er-" I weft 
old Billy Wi 

1 that long knife all clawed 
\nd you say Killer Ames laughed 
I \ " 
" You're seeing ghosts, man." 

taperi lace to the dark 
t, as if to discern in the empty 

that shadowed his world. Hen- 
>ok himself. 

ated« " Come anil I'll 1 
show you on 

rill HILLY 

tred 3j„ 1 

V'oL £ir.*1Z 



41 Come and see. The skipper wants you. 1 ' 

u I can't go,'' the mate pi with a pro- 

found misery in his tone, " I don't understand 
him at all. But he always has the laugh on us . " 

" On some of us," Hendricks corrected, " On 
Wilks, and on you, for instance, but not on m.e " 

Hendricks led him down the steps into 
cabin and trimmed the lamp before pointing 
toward the open door of the captain's room. 
The mate stared \%\ neOiAti£ r Ids mouth set in a 

Wlu 1 tf'yt 

gran : 
" After 

all, it was a good joke on Wtl 

i 7 8 


Hendricks went on, calmly, pushing the door 
farther open and disclosing the still form of 
Captain Ames. 

The mate gazed at the grey face of his com- 
mander, and slowly understanding came to him. 
He pointed to the blot on the yellow sheet just 
over the Killer's breast. In an appalled whisper 
he said, " Billy Wilks did it." 

Hendricks felt a sudden need for plain speaking. 
He must put a stop to this ghastly mummery. 
He shook the mate roughly. 

" No," he said, loudly, " Ames died yesterday 
morning. Wilks was too . late, don't you see ? 
Ames died yesterday, with me in the room. 
Says he to me, * The joke is on the boys # Hen- 
dricks. I've made 'em step lively, and when I'm 
gone they'll think they're quit of me.' Then 
he laughed." Hendricks smiled into Peterson's 
staring eyes. " He laughed," he repeated. 
" And so did I." 

This he said in his new-born resolve to assume 
the sceptre which Ames had dropped. It fell in 
with his purpose to maintain the reign of terror. 
And so he forced himself to laugh loudly. But 
to his surprise Peterson joined him, throwing 
his unkempt head back, showing the circular 
nostrils with their thick, fleshy walls. His mouth 
opened cavernously. 

" Hoho i " he roared, stertorously, resting his 
huge paws on his hips. The little cabin resounded 
to his merriment, as his great voice rose and rose 
in volume in that terrible jocosity. Hendricks 
stepped back, in a cold perspiration. Then his 
eyes caught a crouching figure just behind the 
mate, and he moved still farther back. 

As if in Obedience to this silent movement, 
Wilks straightened himself up, darted out one 
skinny arm and withdrew it slowly. Peterson, 
mouth still open, ceased his wild hilarity, and 
sank crumbling to the deck. 

Instantly sobered, Hendricks plucked the knife 
out of the old man's fingers. 

•\I think there will be no more laughing on 
this schooner, Wilks," he remarked. 

" Captain Wilks," said the old man, sibilantly. 

Hendricks humoured him. " Very well, cap- 
tain. Now what ? " 

" You will act as mate. Mr. Hendricks. Clean 
out this cabin, if you please.-" 

The younger man stared after his new com- 
mander with a feeling that he was once again in 
the grip of a power too mighty for his buffeting. 
Ames was gone, Peterson was gone, remained 
Wilks, the Billy Wilks of former times, ruthless, 
inexorable, and terrific. He yielded his transient 
dream of freedom and acknowledged himself 

By the time the forenoon was in its full Hen- 
dricks was again the cynical, tolerant subordinate. 
He had finished his task, and was leaning over 
the low rail of the schooner, staring down into 
the azure depths of the sea. Somewhere in the 
obscurity below him there was a shadow which 
now darkened, now faded. In the instant when 
he had dismissed Ames and Peterson to their 
final abode, that shadow had grown amazingly 
distinct for a moment, and then became its 
present wavering blur. It struck him as a proper 

end to the two men's bloodstained lives that they 
should fall in their turns the prey of monsters 
of" the sea. 

Wilks, who was striding back and forth on 
the poop, suddenly stepped up beside him. In- 
voluntarily Hendricks lazily pointed out the 
sinister shadow and asked, " Friend of yours, 
captain ? " 

Wilks leaned over the rail and screwed up his 
peering eyes. He shook his head judicially. 

" Friend of Ames," he croaked, then with an 
absurd transition he went on, " And some woman 
will miss him, Mr. Hendricks." 

There rose before Hendricks's eyes the dim 
vision of a girl waiting for Eara Ames to come in 
from sea after his adventures, his hands full of 
treasure. His thought found utterance. " Dead 

Wilks blinked. "They do die," he cackled. 
He chewed his lips reflectively. " I knew a man 
once whose pearls died on his hands. ' I'm stony 
broke/ says he, looking down at 'em, and blew 
out his brains. I took them pearls to Amsterdam 
for luck. 'Nd a woman that was waiting in an 
upper room at the dealer's put 'em about her 
,neck, and the dealer paid me a thousand pounds 
for the pearls and told me the woman loved them, 
and they would come alive again in the warmth 
of her bosom. It's always a woman that brings 
the dead back, Mr. Hendricks." 

Wilks was silent, and his companion surmised 
that this was an obscure reference to himself and 
the woman he had lost. Possibly when Ames died, 
Hendricks thought, the barrier between the old 
man and his long-mourned wife had also fallen, 
and she had come back, a kind of spiritual 
presence which had rejuvenated him and made 
him master once more. But he put away the 
fancy as morbid. Too many ghosts already 
haunted the schooner. 

" Then that's true about pearls ? " he inquired, 
with an effort at naturalness. 

" Pearls — and other treasure," the old man said, 
rumi natively. 

" Did Ames have any pearls ? " Hendricks 
pursued, as a feeler. 

" Killer Ames have pearls ? " returned Wilks, 
pawing his beard. " Hee-hee ! " 

And this shrill cachinnation was the surh of the 
old man's response, to be taken as a comment on, 
Hendricks supposed, the vanity of toil and 
imperilling one's soul for transitory things. At 
any rate, Billy Wilks had no intention of seeking 
for hidden treasures. So that night Hendricks 
stowed away in a safe place what Captain Ames 
had 16ft, and studied interestedly the address in 
the log-book. It was perfectly plain : — 

Susan Mathews, 
4847, Steiner Street, 

San Francisco, Calif. 

Very thoughtfully Hendricks considered this 
and its meaning. To him the name of woman 
meant a weakness ; Killer Ames had not been 
weak. Even when he had swooped down on Wilks 
and stolen his wife — that vague and precious 
" lamb penscri " chronicled by the whispering 
-F<rten»ott — reducing the ecst while masterful Billy 



to a cringing crone, the dead man had apparently 
not betrayed mere human frailty. Who was this 
woman ? The name proved that it was not Mrs. 
Wilks. Who was Susan Mathews ? 
A mystery 1 

In his new position as mate under Wilks, 
standing a regular watch, with none to speak with 
or question, Hendricks found himself much given 
to quiet self-inquisition. The routine of the 
schooner was without incident to divert his 
attention from the problem of existence. In the 
night watches he demanded of himself : What do 
I want ? 

" There must be something somewhere," he said 
to himself. " I used to think there was a life worth 
living. I have forgotten what it was, I guess." 

So he turned his thoughts back upon his en- 
vironments. Wilks affected him as a curious 
study. Here was a man who had altered from 
a whining and incapable drudge into an alert 
and composed shipmaster. He more than held 
his own in the daily emergencies of the voyage, 
and he was most evidently straight on the direct 
road to the achievement of some purpose.* Hen- 
[ dricks was compelled to believe that the act of 
! murder had been beneficial to him. And logically 
he was forced to consider the question whether 
Wilks might not kill him, too, in pursuance of 
his mysterious aims. 

When Wilks said, one morning, " We'll make 
! Honolulu in six days," he roused himself to 
inquire, " Why Honolulu, sir ? " 

The old man shut his lips tightly and scanned 
the cloud-flecked sky. Then he looked down on 
Hendricks to say, "Jf you like, you can have 
the schooner then. I have no use for her. I'll 
stop in Honolulu." 

" Do you mean to say you will turn this vessel 
L over to me, captain ? " 

i M Did you ever hear tell of Billy Wilks ? " 

came the sharp query. 

" Why — I — yes, sir." 

M I'm Billy Wilks. Ten years ago Killer Ames 
laughed at me in George's coffee-house — told the 
boys Billy Wilks was a bluff — not worth listening 
to. Ames laughed. They laughed, too. I'm just 
going back to George's and laugh at them,** He 
fixed his eyes on his mate and nodded several 
times with great satisfaction. " Who'll laugh 
now* ? Not Killer Ames. What do I care for his 
old schooner ? Hey, hey ? The vessel's yours." 

Hendricks did not conceal his astonishment. 

" Do you mean to, say you aren't going to do 
anything ? " 

" Do ? " repeated Wilks. " What else is there to 
do Hey ? I've done it. I'm going back to 
Ge rge's and order a cup of coffee and watch 
the boys come in and stare at me — at Billy 
Wi a, which is back in the flesh when Killer 
An * is overside in a thousand fathom. An' I'll 
sta e back at 'em, and they'll know as Wilks 
wa all right, and came back in his own ship and 
nol ody dared look sideways at him." 

• And then ? " 
1 ilks smiled craftily. 

* 111 stay there, always on deck where people 
wi! come and look and say, ' Well, well ! Ames 

is dead and gone, but look who's here — Captain 
Billy Wilks.' " 

Slowly Hendricks realized that the old man 
told the precise truth. After all his suffering — 
after years on a desert isle watching the sea-line 
for the sail of the man who had ravished bis 
" lamb person " — he had committed murder and 
seized a schooner j ust to go back to a coffee-house 
and stand in the eye of an obscure public as a man 
who was superior to Killer Ames. He had lived 
and struggled and survived, not for hours of 
tender reminiscence of happy days, but to preen 
himself on his ignobly petty pride. Hendricks 
set Wilks down as a fool. He dismissed him from 
his mind when he had left at Honolulu with a hasty 
farewell and a " Wish you pleasant voyage, cap'n." 

" Hum ! " Hendricks muttered to himself. 
" He never even entered the vessel at the custom- 
house. What'll I do ? " The native bo'sn, 
mindful only of the possibility of being paid off 
and having a riot ashore, could not answer him. 
But he spoke of money. 

" Sure enough," Hendricks said, and called the 
crew aft and settled with them out of the funds 
he had found in Ames's belt. 

" Now," he said, when the last man had made 
his mark, "I'm going to sail for San Francisco. 
Who'll go with me?" 

Astonished enough he was when the natives, 
to a man, volunteered and said they would 
forego the delights- of stopping ashore. 

" Then we'll sail to-night," Hendricks said, 
promptly, and left the ship in care of the bo'sn 
and departed to buy stores. 

He came back in a pa hi hack with packages 
piled high about him. The bo'sn met him at the 
pier and babbled some incomprehensible things, 
while Hendricks interrupted : " What's that, 
what's that ? " In the end he caught the meaning 
of the Kanaka's hasty speech and nodded. 

" So Papa Wilks has been chattering, has he ? " 
he remarked. " We'll hie us to sea, Uncle Harry, 
wihi wihi." 

So, without fulfilling the legal formalities, 
Captain Hendricks took the schooner Empress 
to sea in the quiet starlight following a day of 
roaring trades, and in Molokai channel listened 
gravely to the incoherent story told by his bo'sn. 
Hendricks whistled. 

" So that's what he said, is it ?" he remarked. 
" I'd have thought the old boy had learned his 
lesson. But he had to boast of killing Ames, did 
he ? Right out in public, eh ? And said I had to 
stand by and look on ? The old son of a gun ! 
Uncle Harry, what'll we say in San Francisco ? " 

The old islander bent his wrinkled and benign 
face on his captain's and said, gently. " We say 
you very good man. Ames poopooli ; Papa Billy 
poopooli. You good man ; Kanaka boys love you." 
He stretched his dusky hand outward in a great 
gesture. " We boys go with you always." 

Hendricks smiled. He put them down as a 
funny lot. Well, time would tell. Pretty soon 
they would be in San Francisco, and he would 
see Susan Mathews and hand over to her the 
lustreless pearls. 

It had been one of Captain Ames's personal 
eccentricities always to .keep hits; vessel clean and 



well found. Now, in spite of her long sojourn in 
the tropics, Jier copper was bright, and she swept 
northward like a gull, made latitude thirty and 
swung eastward to the tune of the racing gales 
till Hendricks laughed over his daily reckonings 
in sheer pride. Fourteen days out from Koko 
Head, in the early morning, Uncle Harry lifted his 
dusky arm and pointed to a white blotch in the 
drifting cloud above the coastwise surf. 

" The Cliff House ! " cried Hendricks. " When 
did we pass the Farallones ? " 

No answer was forthcoming, and he marked 
down under " weather " for the morning watch, 
" Thick. Fresh gale." Haying duly brought up 
the log he went on deck and hailed a tug. After 
a bit of bargaining this monitor took the Empress 
in tow and in the forenoon swung her to her 
anchorage off Angel Island. Before the hook was 
down the doctor's launch was alongside, and 
that busy official came over the side with a quick : 
" Ha ! this is where you sailed for. eh ? " 

" It is," Hendricks replied, amiably. 

" We've been waiting for you two weeks," 
the surgeon continued, scanning the white decks 
and scrutinizing the grinning hands. " Captain 
Ames died at sea, eh ? " 

" I suppose Captain W r ilks reported it in 
Honolulu," Hendricks remarked. " It's all down 
in the log." 

" Wilks reported a good many things/ captain," 
was the curt response. #i But not officially. I sup- 
pose you realize that you entered port in Honolulu 
without due formalities and sailed without leave? " 

tf That was his business, not mine," Hendricks 

" Well, it's up to you now," the doctor said. 
" Up to you now."' He glared at him officially 
over his glasses. 

" I'm here," was the answer. 

" Sorry, but you'll have to stay here, too. 
Government orders. Can't pass you. Cable 
report that murder was done, and all that. Your 
crew as well as yourself held for examination." 

" Now that is the very deuce and all," Hen- 
dricks said, thoroughly provoked. " I suppose old 
Billy Wilks had to tell a whole lot, didn't he ? " 

M Very likely," was the dry reply. 

Hendricks saw several stolid and matter-of- 
fact men distribute themselves over his vessel 
and smiled helplessly « He drew the bo'sn aside 
and informed him of the orders. The islanders 
nodded, as much as to say that everything was 
all right. No one would talk. 

All afternoon Hendricks kept his cabin, dozing 
the hours away and paying rio attention to the 
occasional intrusion of some officer to make sure 
that he had not evaded the law. Supper he ate 
by himself, apparently quite satisfied to stay on 
his vessel, though the joyous city was preparing 
for another night's pleasure. 

" You don't seem to worry much," remarked 
one of his guards, helping himself to a cigar from 
the table drawer. 

" Not much," Hendricks said, coolly. 

" Nor to be curious about the news," added the 
other. " Though you've been at sea and away 
irom a newspaper for months, I'm told." 

" Hang the news ! " said Hendricks, and went 
into his room and closed the, door. 

At midnight he slipped out a big quarter-cabin 
window into the water, with his treasures and 
clothes made into a bundle in an oilskin bag. 
He swam silently away toward the shore. 

It was quite daylight when he managed to 
drag himself up on the rocks below Fort Mason, 
and it was with some difficulty that he concealed 
himself to dress. This done, he considered him- 
self with an anxious eye. He looked all right, he 
decided. No one would suspect him of being 
an escaped shipmaster. He clambered up the 
heights to a street-car line and went downtown. 
He had not been in San Francisco in six years, 
but he remembered a shop where good clothes 
were cheap, and questions, most likely, not 

An hour sufficed to equip him with what he 
needed — new shoes, a light top coat and a hat 
of a later block than the one he had purchased in 
Sydney three years before. Afterwards he pro- 
ceeded to the beach and ate a hearty meal of 
fresh meat and vegetables at a little inn, smoked 
his nrfct good cigar, and loafed until two o'clock. 
Then he hailed a cab and gave the driver the 
address of Susan Mathews, as Captain Ames had 
written it down in the log-book. 

There is no mental attitude so strong that it 
will not be modified by the change from the 
solitude of the sea to the bustle of a city. As his 
cab rolled away toward the city to the steady 
clump of the horse's hoofs on the asphalt, Hen- 
dricks realized that he was on an important affair. 
For the first time he saw Ames's death, Peter- 
son's murder, and the sequent events, as hugely 
vital matters, not mere happenings in a lifetime. 
He knew that Ames must at some time or 
another have been driven along this same 
thoroughfare bound for this same address. He 
pictured him in lively colours, his austere, 
bronzed countenance turned on the passing 
crowds with a steady expression of having 
superior interests. Ames would have looked 
forward to this trip, undoubtedly. Now that he 
was dead far away, he, Hendricks, was making 
it for him, doing Ames's very important errand, 
to a woman who had had a vast deal to do with 
Ames's fife. He Could not help predicting to 
himself the kind of woman this Susan Mathews 
must be, to whom Killer Ames addressed his 
last thoughts, for whom he had ravaged the 
uttermost seas, to whom he himself was now 
conveying a handful of worthless, dead pearls. 

And what should he tell this Susan Mathews 
when he saw her ? That Ames was dead Jike any 
mortal fool ? That he had not mentioned her 
name when he was passing, but merely spoken o f 
her as " r*er " ? That his last bequest had been 
a lot of trifles not worth looking at ? It all 
depended. He fell into a reverie, and only roused 
himself with a start when the cab stopped before 
a big house on the brow of a hill. He heard the 
cabman's gruff, " Yer place, mister," and stepped 
out briskly. 

" By Jove ! Ames didn't find his love in a 
hovel,' lie i*aid lo himself. 

The conclusion of '* The Temporary Heir" will appear mexJ vtioi'Llh. 



Here Is what I believe to be an entirely new form 

of word puzzle, a 
perhaps welcome 
change from the old 
familiar word square. 
It will be seen that 
ten letters are so 
placed in the circles 
that all the five lines 
of four letters display 
good English words. 
Thus the words in the 
example given are 
BARS, and BEET. It 
will be seen that a word may read upwards or down- 
wards, to right or to left ; the direction is of no 
importance. Now, try to construct a similar star from 
the five words hidden in the following lines : — 
A product of the poet's brain. 

A ray of light is clearly here. 
A tree that flourishes amain. 

You need this for the poor man's beer. 
A vehicle much used by man, 
Though ne'er on king's highway it ran. 
The order of the words is not disclosed ; the solver 
must fit them in himself when found. The puzzle is, 
of course, quite an easy one. 

A correspondent in Rio de Janeiro is kind enough 
to send me the following veracious story. A prisoner 
of war, Herr Adolph Schmidt, explained to a fellow- 
captive that the force to which he belonged originally 
consisted of one thousand men, but that it lost heavily 
in an engagement, and the survivors surrendered and 
were marched down to one of our concentration camps. 
On the first day's march one-sixth of the survivors 
escaped, and on the second day one-eighth of the 
remainder escaped, and, moreover, one man died. On 
the third day's march one-fourth of the remainder 
escaped. Arrived in camp, the remainder were set 
to work in four equal gangs. Herr Schmidt was 

asked how many had been 
BLACK. killed in the engagement, 

but he could not remember. 

Can you assist his memory 

by giving the correct 

answer ? 


368.— A PRETTY END- 
HERE is a little chess end- 
game that was published 
many years ago by M. 
D'Orville, of Antwerp. I am 
sure it will interest my 
readers, and it is not difficult. 
White can checkmate Black 
in six moves. How does he 
do it ? It is all done with 
the king and pawns, without 
any queening. Part of the 
board is omitted to save 

Solutions to Last Montb's Puzzles. 

The perplexing point to decide is whether the 
shaded numbers are mere dummies or not. If you 
decide not to move any of them, you will be wrong. 
The shortest solution without moving any of the shaded 
numbers is in thirty-two moves, but the puzzle may 
be solved in thirty 'moves. The trick lies in moving 
the 6 or the 15 on the second move and replacing 
it on the nineteenth move. Here is the solution ; 
2, 6, 13, 4, 1, 21 , 4, i, 10, 2, 21, 10, 2, 5, 22, 16, 1, 13, 
6, 19, 11, 2, 5, 22, 16, 5, 13, 4, 10, 21. Thirty moves. 

The sides of the three square beds measure 
respectively 31m., 41m., and 49m. The common 
difference of area is exactly five square feet. 

Everybody should know, since Pythagoras dis- 
covered it earlier than 500 B.C., and Euclid made it his 
forty-seventh proposition, that the square on the 
hypotenuse of a right-angled triangle is exactly equal 
to the sum of the squares on the other two sides. But 
the law also applies to other figures. The diameters 
of the three buns were in the proportion 3, 4, 5, and 

they form a right-angled triangle, since the square of 
3 added to the square of 4 equals the square of 5. 
Therefore the large bun exactly equals the two others. 
Give Alfred the piece A, and Benjamin the piece B, 
then place the smallest bun on the middle-sized bun 
and cut away half the rim, giving Charles the piece C 
and David the two pieces D D. Every boy then has 
an equal share. 

The answer is half a hen and a half hen ; that is, 
one hen. If one and a half hens lay one and a half eggs 
in one and a half 'days, one hen will lay one egg in one 
and a half days. And a hen who lays better by half 
will lay one and a half eggs in one and a half days, or 
one egg per day. So she will lay ten and a half (half 
a score and a half) in ten and a half days (a week and 
a half). 

The word is Excommunication. The following will 
make it quite cler.r :— 
(E) (10) (100) (o) (1000) (1000) (UNI) (xoo) (AT) (X) (N). 
<E) (X) (CI] (Oi (VI) (M) (I^Jl CQ (AT)(IO)(N). 





i'!l.r,'M. bjf ZUrHlili* 

IGHT away from the very 
early days of The Strand 
Magazine, more than a quarter 
of a century back, from time 
to time its pages have been 
brightened by drawings of 
extraordinary humour, spirit, 
and originality—the work of Ml J. A. Shep- 
herd. Not a bird that flies, or doesn't, 
not a fish that swims, not a creature that 
goes on legs of any number from two to 
infinity, but has been made to dance at the 
point 'of Mr. Shepherd's pencil a figure of 
fantastic humanity. The importation of 
human character, which was the vehicle of all 
the fun, was no 
mechanical trick , 
but was the result 
of a most original 
insight and re- 
search into the 
nature, habits, and 
structure of the 
creatures carica- 
tured. Hundreds 
of draughtsmen, 
mostly very dull, 

t w o 3 Gran dvi lie 
more especially, 
showed a vast dea! 
more spirit and 
imagination than 
the average dealer 
out of tall hats and 
umbrellas to dogs 
and elephants, 
but they got little 
beyond a realistic 
presentation of 
animals in human 
circumstances and 
habiliments. With 
Mr. Shepherd j the 
clothes and human 
accessories arise 
and are suggested 
in most cases by 
some happy 
adaptation of the 
creatures in their 
Llorais i. or. 

but some quite 
clever, had 
dressed up 
carefully- drawn 
animals in 
human clothes 
long before Mr. 
Shepherd was 
born, and many 
still continue to 
do so with more 
or less success. 
Grand vi lie, the 
Frenchman, was 
far the best of 
these, eighty or 
ninety years ago, 
and Ernest 
G r i s e t , forty 
years later, was 
also an artist of 
talent. These 

■I'.,. Mil j Ill LIU 1^ 




at most the hat or umbrelia is added as a 
< ompleiing touch to a figure put of which 
the human fun is already drawn and 
needs a mere stroke of emphasis. 

The introductory sketches of 
ostriches* heads (and necks) aptly 
illustrate this, A dozing ostrich loses 
ail sense of uprightness in the neck, 
which wilts down irresponsibly, not 
to say drunkenly. The contrast 
between a very wide-awake ostrich 
and one in a dozy state so struck 
>Ir. Shepherd that on the spot he 
:Jcetched the two, giving such extra 
prominence to the bright eye of one 
and the closed lid of the other as to 
carry the suggestion a shade farther 
— the suggestion of a disreputable and 
irebriated husband encountered by 
a indignant vixen wife. The idea is 
\ sible and obvious in the sketch ; 
11 the two finished drawings the 
additions of a battered tall hat and 
a cigarette in the "one case and a 
r ght-cap and flat candlestick in the 
c Jier merely cam* the suggestion to 
1 -"mistakablc completeness. 

;n this example wc see Mr, Shep- 
l jrd's method very clearly. It is not 

his way to make a careful drawing of an 
animal, laboriously copied from nature, and 
then arbitrarily twist it into unnatural atti- 
tudes, endue it into human clothes, and present 
the result asa u funny " animal drawing. He 
studies the animal with a practised eye, till 
something in the creature itself, some sudden 
movement j twist , or turn of form, suggests 
a human trait, and he seizes cm that to 
strike the keynote of his drawing* That 
particular trait — that peculiarity of move- 
ment, attitude, or form — he brings into pro- 
minence, and correspondingly reduces other 
peculiarities, more especially those which 
agree least with the idea suggested* It is, 
in fact, the method of all good art, wherein 
the idea is expressed by the emphasis of certain 
features or qualities and the suppression or 
reduction of others which are unessential. 
Thus you receive the impression intended by 
the artist, and therein consists the value of 
his work beyond the mechanical reproduction 
of all features equally in a photograph. So 
that it will be perceived that caricature 
implies nothing but the usual methods of 
the true artist carried to a humorous extreme ; 
and the artist is inspired, not by a mechanical 
desire to copy the external appearance of 
some animal and then force it into unnatural 
contortions in a desperate endeavour to be 
funny at all costs, but by an idea — an idea 
suggested by the creature he is studying, 




the idea which becomes the theme of his 
work, to be expressed by all the skill at his 

The process may be 
observed in all of the 
drawings illustrating this 
article. One contains a 
number of sketches made 
by Mr, Shepherd of the 
sea-lion at the Zoological 
Gardens, and next is the 
finished drawing in which 
the sea-lion appears in 
caricature as a jolly sailor. 
The elements of the final 
drawing are clearly to he 
discerned in the sketches 
from the life. Similarly 
one may perceive in the 
sketches of fish all the 
rudiments of the finished 
jdrawing, full of humour 
and keen observation, 
wherein these same fish 
figure as guests at a 
public dinner. The 
mackerel makes a speech ; 
the pike, urbane after a 
full meal, smiles with 
all a pike's threatening 
teeth, and the others, 
tench and carp and the 
like, scarcely need a touch 
of the artist's fancy to 
typify the thick-necked, 
full-fed, mindless 
absorbers of rich food 
who are seen so often 
when people meet to eat. 
Again, the preliminary 
sketches of the Beira ante- 
lope very clearly exhibit 
Mr. Shepherd's observation in action. It is 
easy to see how the hoofs have suggested 
to the alert mind of the artist the long, flat 

J. - I 

--©ffgin ^ r 




feet of the slippered waiter in one of the 
ancient London eating-houses, just as the 
patient, long ? brooding face seems to take 
its place with equal appropriateness at the 
opposite end of the figure. The human clothes , 
you will perceive, are not crudely stuck on 
outside the figure of the quadruped ; them- 
selves and their character are subtly suggested 
everywhere' by the contour of the 
animal itself- You will find this in- 
variably throughout Mr, Shepherd's 
work ^ whenever he gives his sab- 

— the suit you seem to remember him wearing 
ever since you first knew him. You can't 
imagine him in anything else. 

Perhaps the most complete of the illus- 
trations this article offers is found in the 

series of drawings 
suggesting the 
transformation of 
an old lady into a 
parrot. If you will 
look first at the 
last of the drawings, 
when the parrots sit 
side by side on their 
perches, and then 
at the first, where 
the old lady, parasol 
in hand, enters the 
room, you will sec 
that nothing has 
been forced into 
the scheme in the 
intermediate pic- 
tures — the germ of 
every object , line 
and touch, in the 
last drawing is pre- 
sent and apparent 
in the first. By 
carrying your 
glance from the 
one drawing to the 
other you will see 
precisely how the 
idea suggested itself 
to the artist, and 
will be in a position 
to appreciate his 
ready imagination 
and his eye for form, 
T h e intermediate 
drawings amusing 
as they are in themselves, explain the working 
of the idea and the relation of forms to the 


^-clothes. Either in figure or in 

ucter the creature suggests its 

clothes, and the clothes in 

y case are the clothes, and no 

r, that the particular creature 

\ have, if it has clothes at all. 

e is nothing incongruous about 

Q — they do not surprise you in 

least ; you accept that parti- 

suit of clothes as the veritabl 

- v of the animal in questi 


I from 

1 86 


slower and untrained eye of the 
spectator. Particularly also erne 
should note the by- comedy of 
the lap-dog, a complete little 
study in itself, yet taking its 
place naturally in the scene, and 
giving substance to the story. 

The life and natural vitality 
that sparkle in every one, even 
the slightest , of Mr. Shepherd's 

still — it is a hundred different birds in half 
as many seconds, and any attempt to draw 
a bird cohiplete from the living creature 
tan only end in a dead figure. Nothing will 
do but the methods of the old Japanese 
artists, which, as a matter of fact, Mr. 
Shepherd has rediscovered independently for 

himself- The creature must Lie studied with 
the eye and nnind t and except for the roughest 
and most rapid notes on the spot, the pencil 
must he used afterwards from memory, 
with whatever assistance such notes may 

drawings, result from his 
methods of patient study of his 
subjects, No artist who sat 
lie fore an animal and laboriously 
fagged away at making a copy 
of the mere body could ever 
attain any such result. Just 
consider the hopelessness of 
this— very usual— method with 
a bird. A live bird is never 


by Google 

Original from 

A Complete Novel 


Author of Ufie W&y of an Eagle etc. 

by Ch 



(See pa«€ 221.) 

by Google 

Original from 



of Dawn 



Illustrated by RPKINSELLA 

" At last I hfiird a vnfcc tt&an the ,iioj>e 
Cry to the summit, Jx there tiny hope } ' 
To which an answer fraUd fram that high laud. 
Hat in a tongue «<> mnn could understand . 
A tut on the glimmering limit fur withdrawn 
Had nnidi. Hini&elf an awful rose of da\ou "" 

— Tf ?;m -r is. 



SOFT wind was rustling through 

the orange groves on the slope 

Above the sea, wafting a m cnt 

of violets through the night. 

A wonderful full moon hung 

like a beacon on the southern 

horizon, transforming the whole 

bay into a sheet of silver, And 

in the recess by the French window that was 

tJtrawn open to the night a woman sat listening, 


A beautiful woman dressed magnificently ! 
There were diamonds on her neck and bosom 
that shimmered and flashed with every breath 
she drew. A great star of diamonds glittered in 
her safe brown hair. Against her robe of black 
her skin gleamed dazzlingly fair. Her eyes - 
grey eyes under straight, tine brows — shone 
brighter than ath They were slightly sunken, 
and the hollows around them were very dark, 
Her face, perfectly modelled though it was, was 
thin, The line of the chin was beginning to be 
prominent. A splendid woman in a splendid 
y**THg, but one who hat] passed her zenith ! 
J "Oman who had lived her life ! 

liere came a sound, the tread of a mans 
in the garden below. The aromatic, scent 
.cigar dispelled the elusive incense of the 
its* The watcher above made a slight 
jre of withdrawal- A faint flush rose in 
pale fate. 

"lc feet drew nearer. They paused. 
3 leaned slowly forward again, " A perfect 
i , Gaspare," she said, . 

t is heaven on earth/' a voice made answer. 

Tt_ cans si ma I 

Come out and join mi. 

Copyrighr, 191 


Hut tin* woman i 11 the chair by the window 
did 110L stir. H Not to-night, Gaspare." she said* 
11 Finish your cigar and then come in to Die and 
we will talk ' 

The man on the path below made an impatient 
sound that did not resolve into words, and there 
foil a silence. 

Then again there fame the treat I of his feet. 
He had sauntered away, 

The woman sat very still for the passage of 
several seconds- Then, as his footsteps con- 
tinued to recede, she uttered a sharp sigh, brared 
herself, and rose. 

For a moment she tottered and put out a 
gn»ping hand, supporting herself againsl ihe 
framework of the window. 

For a moment more she siood with closed eves 
and twitching lips. Then sirmly she controlled 
herself and passed down tin- steps into the magic 
moonlight . 

The man's figure showed lounging on the 
balustrade of the terrace. J F «- seemed lo be 
gazing 1 mt over the orange groves to the sea. 
The breeze stirred the tops of some pine trees in 
the garden near at hand. The night was full of 
mystery, lull of a subtle, poignant charm. 

Sfu- reached him, gliding without sound over 
the stone on which his feet had echoed, ^he 
laid a white, thin hand upon his shoulder as he 

" Bui what a night indeed, mig\ ' she 


Mo turned sharply and looked at her, 

He was a straight, slight man. darkly hand- 
some, with black moustache and imperial. His 

For "UNIViRSITVCFWlGtMGA^r critieaJJy, 
by Elbel M. Deli. 



almost appraisingly. Then suddenly a flame' of pleased. " You were never a great talker, 
passion blazed up in them, He flung the cigar Lucia/' he said, " And I— I have always held 

that between those who love, words are a waste 

of time/' 

" Unless there is something urgent to be said/' 


** Mia cdra ! " he said, and stretched out eager 
hands to clasp her. For she was exquisite, there 
in the moonlight, lovely as a dream. 

She yielded to his embrace, faintly smiling. 

she persisted. " You are always so good to me, 
Gaspare* You won't refuse to listen ? 

She suffered his hot kisses upon 
her eyes and lips. But there 
was no answering passion in 
her surrender. 

She was passive with the 
submission of the slave to the 
master* She accepted his fierce 
caresses without rapture. 

4t How cold you are ! lie 
said , s udde nly , his ,ch eek pressed • 
to hers* " ' it is heav 

She answered him in a low, out, 

throbbing voice that pleaded 
for understanding. "No, no, Gaspare tnio ! I 
am only waiting, dear, to open my heart to you.' 1 

" But why wait ? " he said. " That heart is 
mine, Do I not reign in it alone ? " 

There was arrogance in words and tone. 
Plainly he was the master and expected to be 
treated as such* 

She uttered a faint sigh, as of one who wrestles 
with a difficult problem. ,f Shall we go in ? ** 
she said, rather wistfully* " 1— have something 
to show you.*' 

" To- night ? " He uttered the question with 
a certain sharpness* It was evident that he was 
accustomed to occupy the centre of the stage. 

11 The time goes so fast, 1 ' she said, in her low, 
pleading voice. ** 1 do not know how long you 
will be with me ; but always, when you arc gone, 
there remains so much that I had wanted to say 
to you.'* 

He smiled a little, though not as if greatly 

carissima! COME OUT AND JOIN ME ! ' " 

' COM l 


He all rugged 3 lis shoulders slightly, 
I ever refused you anything ? Jl 

She smiled with a hint of pathos, M I ha\ e 
always been so careful not to ask too much/* 
she said. 

" Bueno ! " he rejoined. " A wise precaution, 
tny Lucia V Now, what is it you have to show 
me ? Something beautiful ? I will not look at 
anything that is not beautiful to-night." 

She caught her breath, as though repressing 
another sigh. ** It is something very beautiful/ 
she said, 

He turned, his arm about her, and began to 
stroll back with her to the lighted window. His 
hand rested upon her wrist, Suddenly his fingers 
gripped it 

" You are thin, Lucia 1 " he satd, in the too« 
of one making a complaint. 

She started a little " I was never stout/' 




His blade brows met. " You are getting 
bony," he said. "I do not like to feel your 

She put an arm about his neck. " Gaspare 
mo," she said, " beauty may pass, but love lasts 
for ever ! " 

His frown grew to a heavy scowl. " I worship 
—only beauty," he said. 

They ascended the steps and entered the 
lighted room. She was panting a little. Her 
free hand pressed her side. 

He looked at her again still more critically 
as the lamplight fell upon her face. A suspicious 
glitter came into his eyes. For a second or two 
he stood silent ; then briefly, imperiously, he 

" Go and take off the diamonds, and wash off 

the paint ! I should like to see you — as you are." 

She made a quick gesture of appeal. " Let 

me look my best for you, Gaspare ! The time 

is so short. Let us make the most of it ! " 

He gave his head a curt, upward jerk. " Do 
as I say— presto, presto ! No artificial flowers 
for me ! " 

She smiled rather piteously. " I never wear 
them for anyone else," she said. 

And then, warned by the impatience of his 
attitude, she moved across the room and passed 
out by a door at the farther end. 

The man, left to himself, fell to prowling to 
and fro, the scowl still on his face. 

Time passed, and he began to tire of prowling. 
He stopped at last abruptly before a small 
writing-table in a corner by the window. A 
piece of blotting-paper lay there. He lifted it. 
Under it lay a photograph, face downwards. 

His eyes narrowed, grew suddenly malignant. 
He picked up the photograph. 
And then. " Sapristi I " he said, softly. 
A face looked up to his — a laughing, provoca- 
tive face that seemed to challenge him to mirth . 
Eyes from which the spirit of youth shone forth 
met his and chased the scowl from his face. The 
very incarnation of gaiety and joy took form 
and threw its spell upon his jaded senses. 

" Sapristi ! " the man murmured again, gazing 
fascinated. "It would be good to hear vour 
laugh ! " 

Across one corner of the photograph were 
scrawled three words : M Your own Mar j one." 

He spelt out the name, and said it over to 
himself : " Marjoric — Marjorie ! " 

Softly the door opened. He did not hear it. 
He was staring as one in a dream at the picture 
in his hand. 
*' Ah ! " A low voice spoke at his shoulder. 
1 have found her ! " 

turned sharply, and a swift exclamation 
cs 3d him, A woman dressed in biack, very 
pz with sunken eyes and a drawn, sad mouth, 
st before him. The lines on her face were 
m ; and cruelly well-defined. It looked 
sh iken. She smiled at him rather piteously. 
you know me, Gaspare ? " 
Lnow you ! " He stared. " Is it really you, 

nodded. " It is I myself." 
♦hing like horror looked out of his eyes. 

" But — -but — heavens, how old ! " he ejaculated. 
" A mummy of womanhood ! " 

She made a slight gesture. " I was always 
older than you, Gaspare." 

He drew back a step as if to avoid her touch. 
" No wonder I found you cold — tepid is the 
word ! The fires have gone out — gone out ! " 

A hint of compassion came into her look. " I 
have given you a shock, caro mio" she said. 

He passed a hand over his face and uttered a 
short laugh. " Bueno ! It is over," he said. 
" Tell me now ! Who is this ? " 

He turned again to the photograph with 
evident relief — -a relief that was reflected momen- 
tarily in the woman's eyes as she made answer. 

" That is Marjorie, Gaspare — -my Marjorie." 

He looked at her. " Your Marjorie ? Your 
child ? " 

She bent her head. " Is she not charming ? " 

" But — your child ! " he persisted, as if in- 
credulous. " The child you went to see last 
summer ? I thought it was — a young child — a 
child of nine— or ten." 

She smiled faintly. " She was nearly ten 
when we first met, Gaspare." 

He looked again at the photograph. " And 
now ? " he questioned. 

" Now she' is eighteen." Softly the woman 
made answer ; her eyes were fixed with his upon 
the laughing, pictured face. 

" You amaze me ! " he said. 

There fell a short silence ; then the man's 
mouth began to relax. Jt was almost impossible 
not to smile back at that merry, youthful face. 

" Were you ever like that, Lucia ? " he asked 

She uttered a quick sigh. " A very, very long 
time ago, Gaspare." 

He looked again at her, as if striving to trace 
some resemblance ; but in a moment something 
like aversion came into his eyes. He turned 
them sharply away. 

" She is eighteen, you say ? Then she has 
left school ? " 

41 She is to leave this summer." In a low 
voice she made answer. 

" And then ? " Curtly he threw the question. 

Her eyes were upon him, earnestly, wistfully. 

" That is what troubles me, Gaspare. I do 
not know what then.'' 

He made a slight "'movement of impatience. 
" You desire to have her with you ? " 

Her sad eyes kindled. "Oh, if that were 
possible, Gaspare ! " she said. 

He frowned. " Is it not possible ? " 

She hesitated a moment ; then : " That is 
what I want to talk to you about," she said. 
" Would it be possible for me to be with her 
just for a few weeks until — until something can 
be arranged for her future ? Till now — -till now 
— I have been able to support her through your 
generosity. But she is old enough now to 
support herself." A quick sigh escaped her. 
" And she is full of eagerness to begin. I am — ■ 
so anxious for it to be — -a right beginning, 

The man's lips sneered lie threw the photo- 

grap* ^VTOlTf t)«HIG^ U mean y ° U 



t In * 


are anxious to secure — -the right husband, my 
Lucia. That should not be difficult with a face 
like that. And doubtless — from your point of 
vie w — a h usband is the more sat isf ac to r y . Bu en o , 
it you wish to join her, ycfc have my permission, 
Keep me informed of your movements, that is 
all ; and the allowance will continue as usual/* 

He took out his cigarette-case with the words 
and turned with an arrogant gesture to the 

The woman stood in silence for a few seconds, 
watching him. There was a strained look in her 
eyes, almost a yearning look. 

At length, in a low voice, " How long can you 
spare me, Gaspare ? ** she said, 

He jerked one shoulder. " Until the roses 
bloom again | " he said, 

" Ah I " Her face contracted, •' And if they 
never bloom t ** 

He did not look at her. He was gazing out 
into the night. + ' Then I will spare you for as 
long as that, my Lucia," he made light reply. 

She bit her lip suddenly, as if at a 
sharp spasm of physical pain. " You 
are -something more than generous, 
Gaspare," she said. 

He laughed a little, not over 
" Baita .' I pay for my pleasures/' he said. 
" You have been — -a good comrade." 

A crimson flood of colour rushed swiftly over 
her face, u Say rather — a good servant, mitf 
ttmie / " she said. 

Something in the words- Teached him. He 
swung round on his heel and regarded her, 

She straightened herself to meet his look, 
Shorn of her jewels and of all artificial charm, 
she yet was superb. 

She stood before him with the majesty o:' i 

He stood looking at her, looking at her, wi i 
eyes that glowed with a half -reluctant admr - 

" So;" he said, slowly, at last " the fires hi s 
not quite gone out I M 

She smiled. The colour was fading from r r 
face, but her eyes still held his* " The fite f 
evening is sometimes redder than the rose f 
dawrw Gaspare," she said, "But I think y i 



caro miof And — thank you for your goodness 
to me — and mine ! " 

With the words she" turned, took up the 
photograph that he had cast down, and calmly, 
regally, passed from the room. 

There was finality in her going. When the 
door closed he knew that she would not return. 

Yet for a space he stood, still gazing out before 
him with an odd discontent in his dark eyes. 
When at length he turned, it was with a move- 
ment almost of exasperation. 

" Bueno ! " he said, again. " It is over. The 
glory has departed ! " 

And with a shrug he went forth again through 
the window into the moonlit night. 

Chapter I. 


It was growing rapidly dark. The lights of the 
PSuis express flared upon the windows, turning 
the landscape into a grey, drifting obscurity. 
And the girl who sat in the corner of a first-class 
carriage trying to discern every fleeting object 
uttered a sigh of impatience and turned her 
bright face inwards. 

She looked very young, a mere child, with 
hair that hung in a thick gold plait to her waist. 
Her face was a merry one, with a beauty past 
disputing. She had the serene brow and clear 
blue eyes of perfect innocence And she addressed 
the carriage at large with the simplicity of one 
who had never known shyness or the need for 

" Shall we erer get there, I wonder I " she 

There were three other travellers in the com- 
partment, an elderly French couple and an 
Englishman. The latter leaned in the corner 
facing her, a clean-shaven man, something under 
forty, with the grave, self-contained air of his 
race. It was he who lowered his paper to answer 

" Oh. yes, we shall get there some day. Getting 
tired? " 

She nodded. " Very tired now it's dark." 

He smiled. His eyes were frank and kindly, 
such eves as children tru*t. " I am afraid- we 
sha'n't be there at present," he remarked. 
" Haven't you got anything to amuse you ? " 

" No, nothing " She leaned towards him con- 
versationally. " If you don't want to read any 
more, we might talk/' she said. . 

He looked momentarily surprised, but he laid 
his paper down, and leaned forward in his turn. 
" That's an idea. What shall we talk about ? 
Yc Or me ? " 

laughed, a sudden, gay laugh that was 
in «tibly infectious. " I knew you were a 
fw man directly you got in. You have such 
a ic mouth." 

ally ? " He laughed also in a quiet 
fa vu the while his eyes observed her. " Then 
I 1 o be the topic of conversation, am I ? " 
looked at him with engaging confidence. 
> you do anything interesting, I wonder ? 
N< ^n't tell me ! Ill guess. I think you're a 
co -t. Is that right ? " 

He shook his head. " Never did a coajuring 
trick in my life." 

" Oh, didn't you ? Then you're an actor — a 
clown, perhaps ? I saw a clown once just like 

" Really ? " lie said again. " I had no idea I 
had such a humorous cast of countenance. No, 
mademoiselle, I am not a clown. I make jokes 
sometimes, but no one ever laughs at 'em. 
They're not good enough to laugh at." 

Her blue eyes flashed him a smile. " There 
are lots of people that can't see a joke, I know. 
For instance, once, when I was quite little, I 
dressed up as Bluebeard, and made love to Miss 
Frere — one of our governesses, a very plain 
creature. I wanted her to pretend to be Fatima, 
you know. But she didn't realize in the least 
what I was driving at. And she said I was very 
rude and indelicate." A little ripple of laughter ' 
came from the red lips. 

Her listener was frankly smiling. " I know 
that sort of person," he said. 

" Do you ? Aren't they bores ? They never 
have a good laugh at anything. They don't 
know how. And if you ever smile when you 
ought not — in church, for instanc e ■ " She 
paused. " I wonder why funny things are always 
so much funnier when they happen in church," 
she said, irrelevantly. r " Have you ever noticed 
that ? " 

" Oh, -yes, often," he said. " That's human 
nature. Some people might call it original sin. 
I really don't know why." 

The gay face dimpled. " Some people always 
look on the dark side," she said. " I was nearly 
expelled once for laughing in church. But if you 
had seen Miss *Frere's hair-net caught by the 
bonnet-trimming of the lady kneeling just behind. 
her, wouldn't you have laughed ? It was the 
funniest tug-of-war I ever saw." 

" I'm sure I should have laughed," the man 

" Yes, I'm sure you would." The merry eyes 
met his confidently. " But Miss Frere didn't. 
She was furious with me. But then she always 
hated me for some reason. That happened in 
thetjholidays, too, when there was never any 

" Oh ! " said her listener, sympathetically. 
" Did you have to stay at school for the holidays ? 
That was rough luck ! " 

" Wasn't it ? " she said. " But it's all over 
now, and I'm never going back any more." 
Her eyes began to shine. " I'm going to my 
mother now. She is wonderful, quite wonderful. 
There is no one like her." 

" Where does your mother live ? " asked her 
new friend, with interest. 

" Oh, she lives at a place called Belleroche, in 
the Riviera, but she is going to meet me in Paris. 
That is why I am in such a hurry to get there. 
What time is it ? Shall wc be there soon ? " 

He looked at his watcb* " I should say in 
about another half-hour. And what are you 
going to do when you get to Paris ? Are you 
oft to the Riviera too ?**' ' 

" I don't knowing id^e^KsrJ. I don't suppose 
she will hi) able f:o si ay away| i^i^B 1 ^ You see * 



she is secretary to an old Italian Count, and she 
doesn't get many holidays. She has only been 
to England to see me once in seven years, and. 
that was last summer." Again the clear eyes 
kindled. " I did love it/' she said, with a sigh* 
" And she is so lovely. You can't think how 
lovely she is." 

" Perhaps I can guess/' he said, looking at her 
with a smile. 

She shook her head. " Oh> no, you couldn't. 
She is like pictures of the Madonna, with that 
kind of still beauty that makes one sad. J. wish 

you could meet her " She broke off with 

sudden confidence. " Are you going to stay in 
Paris ? " 
, He nodded, " For a night or two — yes." 

" Oh, are you ? Where are you going to 
stay ? My mother is at the Hotel St. Remy, in 
the Rue Chassereaii. I suppose you axe not 
going there by any chance ? " 

He smiled. "No; I am going to the Louvre." 

" What a pity ! " she said. " But perhaps it 
isn't very far away ? I hope it isn't. Wouldn't 
you like to tell me your name ? Then I can tell 
my mother all about you." 

He was still smiling. " My name is Hugo 
Quentin," he said. " And yours ? " 

She opened her eyes to their widest extent, 

" Not— not really ? " 

" Why not ? " he said. 

She began to laugh. " Because — do you 
know — my name is Quentin too 1 I am Marjorie 

The man's eyes opened also. He looked at 
her hard. " By Jove I " he said. 

" Isn't that funny F " she laughed. " I wonder 
if we are related. But we can't be, because. I 
haven't got any relations." 

" Haven't you ? " he said. He was still look- 
ing at her very intently. " You're not — I 
suppose you can't be — Dermot's daughter ? " 

She leaned nearer to him eagerly. " Dermot ? 
Yes — that was my father's name I He — was a 
great astronomer." 

" Yes, that was the man. He used to be 
called the Star-gazer. He was my father's first 
cousin." Hugo Quentin spoke slowly, his eyes still 
closely observant of the bright face before him. 

She clapped her hands together. " Then we 
are related ! We really are ! What fun ! But 
I always thought that I had no relations. What 
relationship would you call it ? " 

His face relaxed a little. " I should say 
second cousins. And you are right. You haven't 
many relations. I am about the only one left." 

Marjorie was deeply interested. " But did 
you know my father ? Do tell me about him ! 
I know so little." 

" I can't say I knew him. I met him a few 
times. He wasn't young, you know. He married 
late in life." 

" He was very, very clever, wasn't he ? " 
asked Marjorie. 

" I believe he was — immensely clever. He 
was considered quite an authority' in his own 
line. He used to be constantly .travelling to 
different spots of the globe to see eclipses, new 
stars, and so on." 

" yfaat fun I " laughed Marjorie. " And did 
my mother go with him ? I suppose you havs 
met my mother ? " 

He shook his head. " No, I never met her. I 
don't fancy she went with him very often, but 
h really don't know. I can't tell you anything 
about her." 

" I expect I know more than you do," said 
Marjorie. " She is very beautiful. Her portrait 
was hung in the Salon one year. She was years 
younger than my father. You know, it was 
very odd, but he didn't leave a penny when he 
died. I suppose he spent it all on his pilgrimages. 
And my mother has had to work for us both 
ever since. She has been secretary to this Italian 
count for years — all the time that I have been 
at school. We have never been able to see each 
o^her because she has had to live abroad. Only 
last summer she came over for three little weeks, 
and we went to title seaside together. That was 
the first time I had seen her in seven years, and 
she had to go back to her horrid old count 
then before the holidays were over." 

" And what are you going to do now ? " asked 
Hugo Quentin. He was watching her gravely; 
there was almost a touch of severity about bis 

But she did not notice it. Her answer came 
blithely, with the sublime carelessness of youth. 
M Oh, I don't know yet. That has got to be 
decided. I had to leave the school because it 
has been given up. Perhaps I shall go and live 
with the count too." • 

Quentin made a sharp movement and dropped 
his paper on the floor. She stooped for it quickly 
before he could pick it up. 

" Thante, child ! Don't trouble ! " he said. 

She looked at him. " What's the matter ? " 

He lifted his brows slightly. " Matter ? " 

" You look shocked at something," Marjorie 

He smiled at her again kindly, but his eyes 
remained serious. " I was thinking that you 
are rather young to be travelling by yourself." 

Marjorie laughed. " Guess how old I am I " 

" Fifteen next birthday," said Hugo Quentin, 
without the smallest hesitation. 

She threw up her chin with a delighted gesture. 
" You are quite wrong I I shall be twenty-five. 
And you?" 
»" I am thirty-seven > " he said. 

" Oh, you shouldn't have told me I " she pro- 
tested. " I was just going to guess twenty-six. 
Isn't it fun to have met like this ? You can't 
imagine how pleased I am. Now you will come 
and see my mother, won't you ? I do think yon 
might put up at the Hotel St. Remy." 

" Do you ? " he said. " Well, do you . tow, 
I am beginning to think the same thing." 

She reached out an impulsive hand. Are 
you ? That is nice of you 1 " 

He took the hand, looking at her with fri^ idly 
eyes that yet remained serious. " I thir k I 
shall have to keep an eye on you, Marjorie, ' he 
said. " Paris isn't a particularly nice pla for 
little girls to be running about alone. in." 

" Women of fivf^-aud-twenty," corrected tor- 
jorie, with her merry eyes laughing into h : 



He smiled a little at the amendment. " Young 
TOmen who make friends with men in railway- 
carriages," he said. 

She laughed again. " Is that why you have 
been looking so shocked ? I knew there was 
something. But, of course, I shouldn't have 
spoken to you if you hadn't looked — nice." 

He made her a grave bow. " Thank you, ma 
cousins I But I think it might be well for you 
to remember that things— -and people — are not 
always what they seem." 

" Meaning that yon are not nice ? " suggested 
Marjorie, with her gay little tilt of the chin. 

"No/* said Hugo Quentin. "Meaning that 
you are very young and inexperienced, and you 
don't know much of the world." 

She threw him a flashing smile. " I know. 
It's ridiculous at my age. I'm going to set to 
work now and learn-— all there is to know." 

But Quentin shook his head. " No, don't ! " 
he said. " You're much happier as you are." 

Her blue eyes widened, grew softer, more 
remote. " But I've got to learn, you know," 
she said. " All I've ever learnt till now came out 
of books. I want to know-— real things." 

But he still looked discouraging. " You'll 
learn fast enough/' he said. " Don't be in too 
much of a hurry I " 

The merry mouth began to smile again. 

" Cousin Hugo/ 9 said Marjorie, " I'm sure— 
quite sure — that you'll be-— an old maid I " 

He broke into- a laugh, as if against his will. 
M I shouldn't wonder/' he said. 



"I quits thought she would be at the station 
to meet me/' eaid Marjorie. " It's lucky for me 
you're here. I don't know what I should have 
done if yob hadn't been." 

" I think you would have felt rather lost/' 
Hugo said. 

They sat in the dark depths of a fiacre and 
jolted over the Paris stones. 

Marjorie was not quite so talkative as she had 
been. The arrival at the great Paris terminus 
with no familiar face to welcome her had some- 
what dashed her high spirits. She had accepted 
her new-found cousin's proffered guardianship 
without an instant's hesitation, almost as a 
matter of course, but her lighthearted gaiety had 
died down. She was evidently feeling a little 

" I suppose you know Paris well ? " she said. 

" Moderately well," said Hugo. " I have been 
over twice before on business. I am a partner 
in inn of silk mercer?." 

ti, are you ? That sounds dull," said 
M; tie. " Do you like it ? " 

laughed a little. "I never asked myself 
th question. I used to think I'd be an actor 
on i, and I believe I could have done it too. 
Bi the gods decreed otherwise. I've no doubt 
th knew best." 

Vhat a shame t" said Marjorie, sym- 
pa ticaily. " I thought you looked that sort." 
i slipped a friendly little hand on to his 
kn —* *ave it a soft pat. 

The action was absolutely simple and child- 
like, but the man beside her gave a slight start. 
And then very kindly he took the little hand 
and held it for a moment. 

Marjorie's forlornness was gone on the instant. 
" It is so nice to have you to talk to/' she said. 
" It's silly to be anxious, isn't it ? But I am — 
just a little. What shall I do if my mother isn't 
there ? " 

" Never meet troubles half-way I " he said. 
" Ah ! We're just getting there I " 

The crazy fiacre had turned into a quiet side- 
street. ■ It turned again as he spoke under an 
old archway, and rattled into a stone-paved 

Marjorie began to tremble. As they stopped 
before a brightly-lighted doorway she spoke, her 
voice very low and agitated. " I feel as if — as 
if I want to run away." 

" Oh, stick to it ! " he said, kindly. " I'm 

He opened the door and descended, and 
helped her out. An obsequious porter came 
forward to receive them and take charge of the 
luggage. Quentin paid the driver, and led the 
way within. 

Several men were lounging smoking in the 
vestibule, and all of them turned to view the 
new arrivals. One of them — a slight man, with 
an olive complexion and insolent dark eyes — 
arose after a brief scrutiny of the girl, and inter- 
cepted Hugo on his way to the office. 

" Pardon me 1 " he said. " Is this demoiselle 
Miss Quentin ? " 

It was Marjorie who answered quickly, eagerly. 
" Yes — yes. That is my name. Is my mother 
here ? " 

He looked at her in a fashion that made Hugo 
Quentin draw his brows together ; then, before 
any interference was possible, he made her a 
deep bow and spoke. 

" I am enchanted to make your acquaintance, 
signorina. No", I regret to inform you that your 
mother is not here. She has been tal^en ill. 
Otherwise, she would have met you. I have 
come in her place." 

" My mother — ill ? " Marjorie's eyes grew 
wide with dismay. " Oh, do take me to her ! " 
she begged, impulsively. " What is the 
matter ? " 

He hesitated momentarily, and Hugo Quentin 
saw his opportunity and took it. " I am this 
lady's cousin," he said, quietly. " She is under 
my escort. My najme i$ Quentin also. May I 
know whom I have title honour to address ? " 

Marjorie turned a flushed face of protest 
towards him, but she said nothing, though she 
was quivering with impatience. 

The stranger executed another bow. " I bear 
the name of Voltano," he said. 

" Conte di Voltano," said Hugo, in the same 
quiet tone. 

The other flashed him a swift glance, and drew 
himself up with a haughty gesture. *' Have you 
any fault to find ? " he demanded. 

The Englishman/s grey eyes met his with level 

directness. " It contents m* only in so far as 

v it concerns my cousin/' foe said- " Perhaps now 



you will be good enough to tell us where her 
mother is to be found." 

The Italian's eyes flashed round upon the girl 
waiting in a feverish silence at Hugo's side. " I 
shall give myself the pleasure of conducting the 
signorina to her," he said, in his precise, slightly 
foreign accents. " Your responsibility, signor, is 
now over. Her mother has placed her in my 
exclusive charge." 

A faint flush rose to Hugo's forehead. He 
turned, without an instant's pause, to Marjorie. 
" I think you would prefer to have me with 
you," he said. 

Marjorie was quivering with suspense. She 
looked at him imploringly. " If the count can 
take me straight to my mother I sha'n't need — to 
trouble you " she began, haltingly. 

" That is the point," Hugo said, and quiet 
though his voice remained, it held the utmost 
decision. " You would like to know where your 
mother is, would you not ? " 

" Oh, please ! " said Marjorie. " Please ! " 
She could not understand the very obvious 
hostility that had manifested itself between the 
two men ; but it distressed her less than her 
anxiety on her mother's account. She could 
scarcely think of anything else. She turned with 
great earnestness to the Italian. " Please take 
me to her 1 " she begged him. " I will come 
with you now — now ! " 

He glanced at Hugo with malicious triumph 
in his dark eyes. " As you will, signorina," he 
said. " The fiacre is still there. And she is in 
sore need of you." 

" Marjorie ! " Hugo's voice fell suddenly short 
and stern. He laid his hand upon the girl's 
arm, holding her. " If you are going with this — 
this gentleman, I am coming with you." 

" Pardon me, signor ! That is impossible ! " 
The Italian cut his words even more briefly ; 
they came from between his teeth. " I have her 
mother's precise instructions. They do not 
include you. I question if she has ever- even 
heard of you." 

He looked Hugo up and down with a stare of 
hard insolence. They were rapidly becoming 
the centre of attention in the vestibule. But, 
notwithstanding his British dread of publicity, 
Hugo stood his ground. 

" She will not go without me," he said, 

" Hugo ! " Pantingly Marjorie uttered his 
name. " Cousin Hugo, please, please let me 
go ! I will come back again, I promise. 
Only — only I must go to . her. She is wanting 

" You shall go," he made firm reply, "if I go 
with you ; not otherwise." 

" She will not, signor ! " Furiously the Italian 
flung him open defiance. " The signora will not 
receive you. She quarrelled with- your family 
years ago. The signorina will go without you, 
or not at all ! " 

But still Hugo remained unmoved, his hand 
yet holding Marjorie's arm " She will not go 
without me," he reiterated. 

Marjorie cast a despairing glance into his calm 
face. " Cousin Hugo, I must go." 

" Certainly," he said. - " But — I shall escort 

" And why ? " The Italian was almost stut- 
tering with rage. He looked as if he would strike 

The Englishman's steady eyes comprehended 
him and passed him by. " That," he said, " is 
one of the questions that are better left un- 

The count snarled at him inarticulately, 
gnawing his moustache. 

Marjorie shrank a little at the sight. Almost 
-instinctively she drew nearer to Hugo. " Will 
he — will he — tell us ? " she whispered. 

" No, signorina ! " Fiercely, violently, the 
count flung the words, articulating with difficulty. 
" I will not tell you ! Your mother is ill. 
Saprisii ! She may be dying. But 6he shall 
not have her husband's family forced upon her 
in her last hours. I will take you to her, yes, it 
you will come alone. But — I do not give you 
her address ! That English dog shall not go 

Marjorie had turned very white. She almost 
looked as if she would faint. " I must go," she 
whispered to Hugo. " Indeed, I must go." 

But Hugo, stood like a rock. " He is not a 
fit person for you to go with," he said. " His 
behaviour is more than sufficient proof of that." 

She did not attempt to contradict him. 
Possibly her own instinct told her the same. 
But her distress drove her beyond all reasoning. 

" But what can I do ? " she protested. " My 
own mother ill — and wanting mc ! Hugo, 
think ! " 

" She would not want you to go with this 
man," said Hugo, briefly. 

Marjorie locked at him with agonized eyes 
It was the first time that actual trouble had 
ever touched her gay young life. * 

" I don't know what to do," she said, piteously. 

The count was looking at her with compelling 
eyes. He suddenly braced himself to return to 
the attack. " How long have you known this— 
gentleman ? " he asked her, with a sneer. 

She looked at Hugo swiftly. " Not — not 
long," she admitted. 

" How long ? " he insisted. " A week ? A 
day ? An hour ? " 

She avoided his look. " About — an hour," 
she said. 

He broke into a laugh. " Sapristi ! And you 
place him first — before your mother ? " 

The thrust went home. Marjorie recoiled 
before it in sudden, burning confusion. Almost 
in spite of herself she sought to free her arm 
from Hugo's hold. There was something quite 
intolerable in the Italian's laugh. It pierced her 
like a flaming sword. 

" You are not going," Hugo said, quickly and 

" I must," she said. 

" You shall not." He held her fast in a grip 
that made her wince. ■» 

" But — but — Cousin Hugo ! " she pleaded. 

" You shall not," he said again. 

" He his no rig-lit over you," said the Italian 
speaking through his teeth, " no powers what 
U PJT i'Lrfjl I r Ur MIL Mm AN 





ever, except such as you choose to give him, 
It is for you to choose/' 

She looked from one to the other in 

" No;" Hugo said, with quietness. " You 
have no choice. I have a right. I have powers. 
And I mean to exercise them. Mar j one, come 
with me I 

His hand began to draw her. Against her will 
she yielded* 

The Italian raised his shoulders. "And leave 
your mother to die alone ? Bueno ! The choice 
is yours." 

That moved her. With a sharp cry she 
wrenched herself away* " Oh, I will come ! 
1 I come I " she told him, hysterically. " Take 
r her now — now 1 " 

re seconds later Hugo Quentin stood alone 
i J vestibule with a pale, set face— the centre 
c "jservation, watched by a score of curious 

displayed no discomfiture or agitation of 
a and. He had been temporarily worsted, 
omplete defeat was a thing he would never 
a Dwledge. After a very brief pause for con* 
s nation he turned and with the utmost 
c --" "5 left the hotel. 



In the white villa above the bay, curtained by 
its cedar trees, the green shutters were drawn 
and all was very still. The glare of the sun on 
the dancing water below was almost intolerable, 
for high summer was drawing near* But the 
little white villa on its terrace above the village 
of Belleroche had shut out all the glare. It 
had a mysterious look, as though it habitually 
veiled itself from the glances of the curious. The 
shutters were never lifted before sunset. 

The garden that surrounded it was a blaze 
of flowers and loud with the hum of bees. 
Climbing roses were everywhere, trailing from 
pillars along the terrace, smothering the porch, 
They were the embroidery to the veil. They 
helped to screen. 

All along the terrace there ran a gorgeous 
border of belladonna lilies, deeply pink, all their 
faces turned to the sun. They seemed to Hugo 
Quentin reminiscent of a face he hud recently 
seen and marvelled at — a face all flushed with 
the rose of youth, the dawn of life. 

He passed the shuttered window with the 
steps that led up to it, and reached the portico. 

Behind ^\<ER^^f^lt?FfRSfffj earden ' the 




waves were splashing merrily on the beach. The 
cheery sound came strangely through the almost 
ominous hush that* pervaded this jealously- 
screened place. Even the humming of the bees 
seemed almost an intrusion. 

He knocked on the closed white door, -and 
stood patiently in tiie sweltering heat, waiting 
for admittance. * 

Several seconds elapsed before he heard any 
movement in response. Then there came a 
slow, heavy tread and the door opened a few 
inches. A face that looked as if it were made out 
of brown paper peered forth — the face of an old, 
old woman. The eyes, incredibly bright, like 
the eyes of a monkey, looked the visitor up afid 

Hugo, being no linguist, tackled the situation 
at once in plain English, hoping for the best, 
f * Mrs. Quentin lives here, I believe ? Is she at- 
home ? " 

The beady eyes continued to travel up and 
down him at baffling speed, but the mouth, 
sunken yet hard, remained uncompromisingly 
closed. Hugo felt that in another moment the 
door would be shut in his face. 

But, having travelled so far, he had no inten- 
tion of being sent empty away, s He took a five- 
franc piece from his pocket, laid it with a smile 
upon his card, and offered both in silence. 

The magic worked, as he had foreseen. A 
claw-like hand received the offering, and with 
a brief nod the brown face disappeared. 

He resumed his patient waiting with the air 
of one to whom time is not of the smallest con- 
sequence. There were very few people in the 
world who had ever seen Hugo Quentin lose 
patience. At last there came again the heavy 
tread ; the door was opened wider in a tacit 
invitation to him to enter. He stepped within, 
and at once it closed upon him. 

He found himself standing in a cool, dark 
passage, so bereft of the glare without that for 
a space he stared about him, seeing nothing. 
Then, at length, his eyes growing accustomed 
to the dark, he saw his guide beckoning him 
imperiously to follow. 

He did so, listening instructively for the sound 
of a girlish voice, the tread of a girl's light feet. 
But he listened in vain. No sound of any sort 
reached him, save the unromantic tramp of the 
old servant in front of him, and in a moment or 
two the opening of a door in the gloom. A few 
muffled words were spoken, and then the figure 
in front stood back, ushering him forward. 

He entered a room that was filled with a green 
twilight from the rays that filtered in from 
without through the drawn shutters. It came 
to him with an odd feeling of-shock that it was 
like stepping into a grave not yet wholly filled 
in. The atmosphere had a vault-like stillness 
that smote coldly on the senses. 

He glanced around him expectantly, still half- 
hoping to hear a fresh young voice raised in 
welcome. But again he was disappointed. No 
greeting reached him. His eyes found and dwelt 
upon the only occupant of the room — a woman 
like the picture of a Madonna, who sat still in a 
great easy -chair, and looked at him, looked 

at him, with eyes that seemed to search his 

She was the first to speak, and that after a 
considerable silence, during which he sought in 
vain for words. For there was something terrible 
in that quiet room, something tragic that de- 
manded the most elemental simplicity. It was 
no moment for the lighter conventionalities of 

" Come in I " she said, her voice so low and 
hollow that again he thought of the half-open 
grave. #f It was good of you -to come. I have 
been hoping — praying — that you might, though 
the chance seemed so small — so small. Ah, well, 
I know now — I know now — that God answers 
prayer, if — if only one can pray hard enough/* 

She stopped, and he was aware of a hand held 
out to him — a trembling, impotent hand. 

" You are Hugo Quentin," she said ; " my 
Marjorie's cousin. You already know who — and 
what — I am." 

The words pierced him with a deep com- 
passion. He took the quivering hand and held 
it. " You are Marjorie's mother," he said ; and 
after a moment : " Can you give me any news 
of her ? " 

" Yes, she is here." She answered him in the 
same low voice ; it almost seemed as if she 
feared the exertion of raising it. Her sunken 
eyes were lifted to his, imploring him. " She 
told me about you, how kind you had been. 
He — the count — brought her straight here." 

" I gathered that he would," said Hugo, with 
a touch of grimness, " after what passed." 

" Yes." Still she looked up at him with that 
mute entreaty in her eyes. " I was taken ill — 
too ill to meet her, as I had intended. He — the 
count — came down unexpectedly, and he offered 
— to go in my place. I had no one else to send. 
I had no choice but to let him go. I did not 
know — I could not guess — that you would be 

She was pleading with him, pleading against 
harsh judgment, striving piteously to range him 
on her side. He realized jt, and his hardness 
went from him. He drew a chair to her side, 
and sat down. 

" Of course not," he said. " It was by the 
most amazing chance that we met." 

" Ah I I do not believe in chance." Almost 
under her breath she answered him. " All my 
life I have been — an unbeliever. But now — 
now with tile night drawing on — I am beginning 
to see — as I have never seen before! Someone 
is holding up a light to me in the darkness. 
Someone is guiding me." She paused, panting, 
her hand pressed tightly over her heart. T n 
with obvious effort.: " It was not — chant — 
that sent you to— my Marjorie," she said. " it 
was it chance that made you follow her here 

" It was not," Hugo agreed. 

She laid her wasted hand upon his arm. " 1, 
how good it is," she said, " to speak once n -e 
with an honest English gentleman] Do u 
know you remind me of my husband- jf 
Dermot ? " 

" My cw:j impxeismoti of Dermot was tha te 
was a fooV said Mingo, with quiet decision 



Her hand pressed upon him. " But he was 
safe," she said; " he was honourable. I — I was 
far the greater fool of the two. For I had all 
the world in my grasp, and I could have turned 
it into a paradise. And I threw it all away for 
a dream, an illusion, a bubble full of emptiness. 
Well, it is over. The chance will never be mine 
again. I sowed tares instead of wheat, and 
now I am reaping my harvest." Her beautiful 
face Quivered, but in a moment she controlled 
it. " That brings me to what I want to say to 
you/' she said. " Forgive me if I seem abrupt, 
but the time is so short — so short. It is right 
that I should suffer. I deserve it, God knows. 
And I can bear it. But, oh, He must not — surely 
He will not — visit my sin upon my little one. 
That is my one dread now. If that were taken 
away, then I could die in peace — die gladly." 
Again she paused, and he saw her throat working ; 
she put up a hand to still it. " I tell myself," 
she whispered, " that that is why you have been 
sent — to — to — save her from evil. Your eyes 
are so straight and clear. I think you carry 
pride of family in your heart — like Dermot — 
poor Dermot — whom I dishonoured. Do you 
know-r-ehe is here — here in the very midst of 
evil, and she has not seen it ? She is untouched 
as yet— my Marjorie, my rose of dawn. Her eyes 
have &0t been opened. She has not seen — the 
serpent in the garden. But he is there* waiting 
for her — waiting for her. And when I am gone, 
who will protect her ? Mr. Quentin — Hugo — will 
you save her ? " 

Her voice rose upon a note of anguish. She 
leaned forward in her chair, clasping his arm, 
gazing piteously, beseechingly, into his face. 
There was Death in her eyes, and he saw it ; the 
shadow of the falling night seemed to hover all 
about her. 

And because of that shadow he answered her 
instantly, swiftly, as if reaching water to one 
dying of thirst. " Of course I will save her. 
You do not need to ask." 

" Ah I " She drew a hard breath and sank 
back, as though the sudden relief were almost 
too much for her. 

For a space there was no sound save her 
laboured and uneven breathing. Hugo sat 
motionless beside her, perfectly quiet and free 
from agitation, waiting for her to grow calmer. 

When at length she spoke again he turned 
towards her with steady attention. There was 
no hint of strain in his demeanour, nothing to 
indicate that he had just undertaken a responsi- 
bility from which a good many men might have 
al nk in dismay. His eyes were gravely kind 
a »v rested upon her. 

ou are good 1 " she said. " Oh, you are 
g .1 used to scoff at goodness. I know 
n —what it is really worth." 

le flicker of a smile crossed his face, touching 
t) Humorous lines about his mouth with a hint 
Q my. " I have been told I am too nondescript 
t< anything else," he said. " Believe me, I 
a ot remarkable in any way. But you can 
c inly trust me. I make rather a point of 
o trustworthy" 

-nre of it/' she said, earnestly. " You 

carry it in your face. Because of it I am tempted 
— I am greatly tempted — to ask one thing more 
of you. Dare I ask it, I wonder ? Dare I pre- 
sume still further upon your goodness — your 
charity ? " 

" I will do anything in my power," he said. 

" You will," she answered. " I know you 
will." And for the first time a measure of relief 
was in her voice. " It is this. She is as innocent 
as the day. She has not the faintest suspicion 
of — of — her mother's sin. I have always called 
myself the count's secretary, and she believes it. 
Will you let her go on in ignorance ? I feel that 
I shall know ; wherever I am I shall know. She 
believes in me now. Oh, let her always believe 
in me ! Never let her know ! Never let her 
suspect ! " 

Hugo was looking at her with his straight, 
unvarying eyes. " She shall never know," he 
said, " if I can prevent it." 

There was resolution in his tone. He spoke as 
a man whose word was his bond. And as she 
heard 'him great tears welled suddenly in her 
eyes and rolled down her drawn face. She did 
not speak, but in those tears there was more than 

Again for a space there was silence between 
them. The man sat with that absolute impas- 
sivity that seemed characteristic of him. He 
did not appear to be thinking very deeply, but 
there was self-reliance in his pose. There was 
no element of rashness in the action he had 
taken. If he acted upon impulse, he had the 
gift of seeing clearly whither the impulse would 

He spoke after a time perfectly naturally, as 
if discussing a perfectly natural state of affairs. 
"If you really wish to preserve the child's 
innocence, there seems to be only one course 
open to you." 

" Ah ! " The word escaped her like a cry of 
pain. " You mean — I must send her away I " 

" No. I did not mean that. I had not 
thought of that." He spoke contemplatively, 
almost as if he wished to eliminate the personal 
aspect altogether. " No. I meant the count. 
You ought to tell him to go." 

" I ! " Utter astonishment was in her voice. 
She gazed at him incredulously. 

He met her look calmly. " I am quite willing 
to tell him — on your behalf." 

She gave a gasp. " Impossible ! " she said. 

" You mean the place is his ? " 

" Everything is his ! I am his ! " 

Huge* raised his eyebrows slightly. " Not 
irrevocably, I think," he said. 

" You are wrong." Her voice sounded flat 
and tired. " I gave myself to him — uncon- 
ditionally — long ago. I am his until he finally 
throws me aside." 

Hugo made a brief gesture with one hand, as 
if he^ shook off some emotion before it could take 
a firm hold. " Can't you send the scoundrel 
about his business ? " he said, in a low voice. 
" I will provide for you." 

She shook her head vrithout speaking. 

" For the child's sake ! Jt he urged. 

But the hopelessness in her evv*s silenced all 



persuasion. " I could not face it now," she said. 
" I am too ill — too tired. All that I can do is 
to place her in your keeping. And — and if you 
think she ought to leave me; if you think" — 
she hesitated momentarily — " that she is in 
any danger, take her — in Heaven's name — take 
her away ! " 

"I am afraid I do think that/' Hugo said, 

She made an anguished gesture, but it was of 
surrender rather than appeal. " Do — whatever 
you think best ! " she said. 

He looked at her, and there was open pity 
in the look. " I shall have to ask you to help 
me," he said. 

" I will do all that is in my power," she 

" Thank you," he said. '* Then will you tell 
her that you have appointed me her guardian — 
being the only member of her family left ? And 
tell her that my business obliges me to go back 
to England, and you wish her to accompany me. 
Can you do this ? " 

She bent her head. Again her throat was 
working spasmodically. " I will do it," she said. 

"Thank you," he said again. "You are 
placing her unreservedly in my care, and I 
appreciate the honour done me. I will do my 
very utmost — always — to be worthy of it." 

He spoke solemnly ; but he looked at her no 
longer. There was that about her at the moment 
that made him avert his eyes instinctively. 

But in a second her hand groped outwards, 
seeking his. " And you will be — good — to her ? " 
she whispered, brokenly. 

He took the hand and pressed it. " I will be 
good to her," he said, and added in a lower tone, 
" so help me, God ! " 

In the silence that followed there was some- 
thing sacred, and by that silence, even more 
than by his oath, Marjoric's mother knew that 
this man would keep his word. 



A peal of girlish laughter rang along the terrace, 
and Hugo rose at last to take his leave. He had 
been sitting in that chamber of green twilight 
for more than an hour. 

" I will not stay now," he said. " You will 
tell her all that is necessary. I sjiall come for 
her this evening. You say the count will be 
at the Casino ? " 

" He may be. I do not say he will be. He is 
always uncertain." 

She spoke with her face turned towards the 
window. He saw that she was straining her 
ears to catch another sound of that gay young 

He bent slightly towards her. " I gather that 
vou have not told her of the gravity of your 
illness ? " 

She met his eyes, recalling herself with an 
effort. " No — no ! She thinks that I am 

" Then let her continue to think so — if you 
can ! " Hugo said, gently. " It will make things 

She smiled, a quivering, piteous smile. 

" Yes, you are right. I will play the game — 
to the end. Good-bye, my friend ! " 

Her fingers held his hand lingeringly ; it 
seemed as if she wanted to say more. But no 
words came. Her hold relaxed. 

He straightened himself and turned to the 
door, just as it opened to admit Marjorie. 

She came in swiftly, bringing a breath of the 
flowers and the sunshine with her. 

" Oh, mother mine, I have had such a time. 
The count and I have walked miles. He wanted 
just to laze on the beach, but I wouldn't let 
him. He has promised to take me to the 
Casino to-night. Why — why — you ! " suddenly 
perceiving Hugo in the gloom. " How ever did 
you get here ? " 

He held out his hand to her. " I came after 
you by the next train," he said. " I wanted to 
see your mother." 

She looked at him for a moment half-doubt- 
fully before she laid her hand in his. " I am 
sorry I left you so suddenly the other night," 
she said, then, " You see, I was anxious." 

" I quite understand," said Hugo. 

Her clear eyes regarded him with more con- 
fidence. " I didn't mean to be rude," she said. 
" And — I don't think the count realized that we 
were related. I explained it all to him afterwards. 
He knows now." 

" I am glad of that," said Hugo, dryly. 

Her brows contracted a little. She looked 
puzzled. But the next instant she turned to 
her mother, seeming to dismiss the matter. 

" How are you, dearest ? I hope you haven't 
been lonely. I wondered — afterwards — if we 
ought to have gone so far." 

" No, dear. I have not been lonely." Her 
mother's reply was very quiet, her tone so 
ordinary that Hugo marvelled. " Where is the 
count now ? " she asked. 

" He has gone in to write a letter. I offered 
to do it for him," laughed Marjorie, '* as you 
were not up to it. But he said if I had anything 
to do with it, it would never get written. So I 
left him to do it himself." 

Her mother did not smile at the naive words. 
She was leaning back, with eyes half-closed. 
" Your Cousin Hugo is just leaving, dear," she 
said. " Will you see him off ? And then come 
back to me ! " 

" Oh, are you going ? " said Marjorie, turning 
back to him. " What a shame ! But you'll 
come again, of course ? " 

" Thank you," Hugo said. " I will." 

She smiled at him, still with that tinge of do"ht 
in her eyes. " I can't believe it is only two d *s 
since I saw you last," she said. " You don't ' k 
a bit the same." 

He raised his brows slightly. " I am the san *' 
he said. 

" Then it is I that have changed," she return 1. 
" It seems such years ago since we met in t e 
train and I told you all about poor old M » 
Fr«re ; and then that horrid fright in Paris at t 
my mother." Sh^ drew a deep breath. " A I, 
after all — to set here and find there wasn't m h 
the matter ! I can't tall you what a relief it " 5. 



And now I'm having such a glorious time. You 
can't imagine what a kind man the count is. 
He thinks of everything." 

She paused, and there was a moment's silence. 
Then. " I think I really .ought to go," Hugo 
said. " Your mother will be tired out." 

Marjorie turned to the door. Something in his 
manner made her feel oddly embarrassed.. There 
was a suggestion of severity about him which 
she could not fathom. % 

They passed out under the climbing roses. 
"Don't come out into the sun again 1 " he 1 

She stopped at once, her frank eyes raised to 
his. " Are you stiir feeling vexed with the 
count ? " she said. " I am dreadfully sorry he 
was rude tg you, particularly as he isn't in the 
least like that, really. I was prejudiced myself 
at first ; but one has to make allowances for a 
foreigner, don't you think ? " 

Hugo looked at her for a moment in silence, 
and then the kindly lines came back into his 
face. " No," he said. " J don't think so in this 
case, Marjorie. But never mind that now ! Go 
back to your mother! She has something to 
say to you." 

Marjorie watched him go with a thoughtful 
look in her eyes. Instinct told her that he was 
a man to be trusted, but yet that sensation of 
doubt lingered. He had worn an expression that 
was almost grim when she had first entered her 
mother's room, and she could not understand it. 
With a feeling of uneasiness that almost amounted 
to foreboding, she turned to go back. 

She re-entered the room in which her mother 
sat with less elasticity than before, and dropped 
into the chair that Hugo had vacated with a little 
" What did he come for, dear ? " she asked. 
Her mother laid a very tender hand upon her. 
" My Marjorie," she said, " I will tell you. Hugo 
Quentin is a rich man — a very rich man, and he 
blows that I — have nothing. I am living on — 
on charity." 

" But you earn what the count gives you," 
said Marjorie, quickly. 

" No, dear. I don't. I am earning nothing, 
and I have saved nothing. Hugo knows that. 
And — he knows that you, too, are dependent in 
the same way. He is very good, Marjorie. Being 
related to you, he regards himself as responsible 
for you. He has offered to provide for you, to 
become your guardian. And, my child, I have 
accepted his offer." 

" Mother I " Marjorie sat suddenly upright, 

K tr cheeks burning. 

Her mother's hand pressed upon her .very 

sntly and persuasively. " Dear, there is no 

her way. It has troubled me more than I can 

y— the thought of you and of your future. 

sannot ask the count to keep you. You would 

rt wish that yourself. But Hugo is different. 

& is a relative, and he has promised me that 

e will take care of you. He is a good man, 

r arjorie. You may trust him absolutely." 

"Oh, but, mother — mother 1" Sharp dis- 

tss sounded in the girl's voice ; she leaned 

»ard, her vivid face full of protest. "He 

can't take care of me. I belong to you — to you. 
I am not going to leave you ! " 

Her mother's hand travelled upwards to her 
bright hair, soothing, caressing. " I never meant 
to keep you with me, my darling; and this 
chance is too good to refuse. You will accept it 
for my sake, Marjorie. It is to set my mind at 
rest" ^ 

" Then he wants — he really wants — to take 
me — away ! " There was almost a note of panic 
in Mar j one's voice ; she clung to her mother 
suddenly and convulsively. " Oh, dearest, I've 
only just got here ! " she pleaded. " I can't— 
I can't — leave you again— yet I " 

" I know it is hard." The thin arms went 
round her, pressing her close. " Life is like that, 
my Marjorie. It is full of sorrows' We think 
ourselves happy, but it does not last, it cannot 
last. Yes, you must leave me. He cannot stay, 
and he has offered to take you back with him, to 
give you a home, to look after you as I never 
can. Marjorie darling, for my sake, because of 
your love for me, don't make difficulties ! Do 
this thing with a brave heart ! It isn't as if we 
had ever been together for any length of time." 

" But I thought — I thought I should be with 
you always now," whispered Marjorie. " Why 
can't I be the count's secretary instead of you ? 
I should soon learn. I am sure he would agree. 
Let me run and ask him, dearest ! Please let 

" No, Marjorie ! " Her mother's arms tightened 
upon her, holding her fast. "It is out of the 
question . The count — is a very violent-tempered 
man. You wouldn't be happy, dear, and I — 
should be miserable. No, believe me, Hugo's 
offer is the only thing for you, and it would be 
madness to refuse it/ Go with him, child, for my 
sake I I shall know then that you are safe." 

" But, mother, how can I — how can- I leave 
you ? And I am perfectly safe here. I am not 
afraid of the count. In fact — in fact, I believe 
he likes having me. Mother, dear " — keen dis- 
tress was in Marjorie's voice — " you can't — 
want — me to go ? " 

" I do, Marjorie, darling." Very tenderly the 
mother made answer. " I can't tell you what 
it means to me to feel that you will be safely 
provided for in the days to come. It is the one 
thing I desire before all others. It is the one 
thing I have prayed for." 

" And I am to go away — back to England— 
with Cousin Hugo — and not to see you or tne 
count any more ? " Marjorie suddenly with- 
drew herself to gaze at her mother with eyes of 
hurt wonder. 

But on the instant her mother's arms drew 
her back again. " Do you* think it is easy for 
me, my darling ? " she said, and there was a 
sound of heart-break in her voice. " But, oh, 
Marjorie — Marjorie — it is the only way. I beg 
you, I implore you, to take it. You will regret 
it all your life if you don't. And I— I think it 
will kill me." 

There fell a silence — a silence of amazement, 
of non-comprehension on the girl's part, of 
agonized suspense on the mother's. 

Then, i*ith a saft bnt ir^solute movement, 



Marjorie drew herself away again. n All right, 
dear/' she said, her voice very low and still. 
" I'll go. When do you want me to start ? " 

** He has to leave to-night/' her mother said* 
She suffered her arms to fall, for Marjorie did 
not seem to want them any more. 

goes alone, I do not wish him to know that yoo 
are going before you are actually gone/" 

" Mother, why ? " Marjorie was standing 
before her, very slim and straight. Her young 
face looked strangely stern. 

" I can't tell you why,' 1 her mother said. 




" To-night 1 " A hint of surprise was audible 
in the word, but no protest followed it. Marjorie 
got to her feet. " Very well/' she said. " To- 
night, then/' 

"And, Marjorie" — lier mother looked up at 
her with eyes of piteous longing; the struggle 
was over, but she felt that it had wounded the 
thild to the heart— -- one thing more. You said 
that the count had promised to take you to the 
Casino to-night. I want you to let that arrange- 
ment stand till the last moment, and then to 
change your mind and stay with me. Even if 
he is vexed, I want you to do this, so that he 

" You are afraid that he would not wish mo 
to go — that he would quarrel with Hugo ? " - 

" Perhaps/' 

Her mother's voice was unvaryingly gentle, 
but it hold a great weariness. 

There fell a pause. Then very slowly Marjorie 
turned to go. All the youth, all the gaiety, 
seemed to have died out of her. " Very well/' 
she said again. 

She moved to the door, opened it, passed 
slowly out. « ■ , , 

Her mother w&Uhed her go, sitting motionless 
in the darkened mom. But as Uie door closed 



something seemed to break within her. She 
uttered a smothered cry and sank forward. 

"Oh, Marjoriel" she sobbed. "My Mar- 
jorie 1 " — and burst into an agony of tears. 



"I am very sorry, count." Marjorie stood 
framed in the window that overlooked the sea. 
Her face was pale, her eyes troubled. 

The bay lay spread below them, a sheet of 
silver in the moonlight. Her look dwelt upon 
it wistfully. 

The count leaned against the woodwork. His 
eyes saw her, and her alone. " Your mother 
needs you, you say ? " he questioned. 
She bent her head and answered " Yes." 
The lamplight flashed upon her golden hair. 
He reached out a slim, brown hand, and took 
the long plait that hung to her waist, caressing it 
softly between his fingers. 

" Bueno I " he said. " If you stay, I stay 

She glanced at him, smiling faintly as she 
noted his occupation. " No. You mustn't stay 
too. Why should you ? " 

" To be near you, signorina" he said, with a 
flash of his dark eyes. 

"But if I am with my mother " said 

Marjorie, and paused. 

He laughed softly. " Then you will be able 
to spare me a minute now. and then. I shall stay 
for those minutes." 

She shook her head. " No, that is just it. I 
sha'n't be able to do that." 

His look became indulgent. " Bueno I " he 
•add again. " There is to-morrow." 

She made a slight gesture as if oppressed, and 
turned her eyes again upon the dreaming sea. 
, The count straightened himself slowly. His 
look still dwelt upon her. Suddenly he lifted 
the golden plait and put it to his lips. " Until 
to-morrow, then ! " he said, and smiling, turned 

Marjorie started a little at the action, but he 
gave her no time for protest. He was gone with 
the stealth of a serpent before she could speak. 
A slight shiver went through her, that instinctive 
sense of shrinking which she had felt when she 
had first met him. She hked him ; he fascinated 
her. But there were moments when his presence 
filled her with a vague uneasiness. She was 
conscious of relief when she knew that he had 
left the house. 

But yet she made no move to join her mother. 

Her heart was very heavy, but yet she felt 

lelkd to hold aloof. Her mother's attitude 

zled and hurt her. And she was angry, too, 

% Hugo Quentxn. She was sure that he had 

d very strong persuasion to bring about this 

a of events. The feeling that she was to be 

>endeat upon him was almost intolerable to 

\ She resented his interference from the 

ttom of her soul. She would even have 

fferred to be dependent upon the count. 

tat she kaew herseli to be helpless. Her 

ire had been settled between him and her 

her without any reference to herseli; and 

that fact had aroused in her a storm oi indignation 
such as had never before swayed her. She had 
no choice but to submit, but submission was gall 
to her. Had she dared, she would have appealed 
to the count; but he himself had made this 
course impossible. That silent caress of his had 
somehow checked the impulse at its beginning. 
She could not even contemplate it now, though 
why it should have had that effect upon her she 
could not have said. 

So she waited there alone in bitterness of soul 
for the wheels -of destiny to whirl her away. 

When she heard the quiet step at last of the 
man to whom her mother had entrusted her, 
she drew back a little, but with no thought of 
escape. Slight as was her acquaintance with 
Hugo Quentin, she had come to know him as a 
man who would sooner or later surmount every 
obstacle in his path. 

She believed he would seek out her mother 
first, but in this she was mistaken. He had seen 
her at the window, and he halted at the foot of 
the steps. 

" May I come in this way ? " he asked. She 
moved forward again reluctantly. " Yes, of 
course," she said. 

There was no greeting in her voice ; she felt 
unnaturally cold and stiff. He mounted the 
steps and entered. His face was grave, but she 
noted again those faintly humorous Hues about 
his mouth which first had drawn her to him. 
She resisted the attraction now. She did not 
want to like him any more. 

He looked at her, his grey eyes kind and 
temperate. " Your mother has told you about 
our talk this morning ? " he asked. 

Marjorie nodded. " Yes." 

" And you are coming with me ? " said Hugo. 

Her eyes met his for a Second, blue and wrath- 
ful. " I must," she said. 

" Oh, don't put it like that ! " He came close 
to her. " Marjorie, you're not angry ? " he said. 
" I didn't think you could get angry." 

She turned from him. " You don't know me 
very well yet, do you ? " she said. 

" Yes, I do," he asserted. " But — really, you 
know — you're not looking at this from the right 
point of view. Marjorie, don't turn your back 
on me ! It's rude." 

His voice held no more than the mildest 
protest ; but she turned back instantly with a 
burning face. 

" I — I suppose you think I ought to be grate- 
ful," she said, tremulously. " But I can't be — 
and I'm not I There ! " 

" My child," he said, " I *un thankful to hear 
it, for nothing would embarrass me more. But 
you needn't want to kick me for the very natural 
desire to be useful, I don't deserve that. Ton 
my word, I don't." 

That moved her, in spite of herself. Her eyes 
filled with tears. " I don't ! " she said. " I 
don't I " 

" Oh, that's right," said Hugo, with evident 
relief. " I was afraid you did." 

He did not see the tears, for the moonlight on 
the water caught Ida Bitte-at'on. 

" By Jove f " lie said. " That is beautiful I 




I don't wonder that you don't want to leave. 
I only wonder at myself for having the cheek to 
suggest such a thing/' 

She drew to his side as he stood, looking forth. 
" Cousin Hugo," she said, " why do you want 
to take me away from my mother ? " 

He glanced at her. " I wanted your mother 
to come too," he said. " But she seems to think 
this place is better for her." 

" Then why should I leave her ? " persisted 
Marjorie. " She is not strong. I ought — surely 
I ought — to stay and take care of her ! " 

He turned to her fully, with that slight move- 
ment of the eyebrows characteristic of him when 
facing a difficulty. " Marjorie," he said, " I am 
going to ask you to do something rather great. 
It isn't an easy thing, of course. Great things 
never are. But will you try ? " 

" What is it ? " said Marjorie. 

Her agitation had subsided. He seemed to 
possess a calming influence. But her resentment 
remained, dully smouldering. She could not be 
angry with him, since he would not sutler it. 
But she would not be friendly 

" It is this," he said. " Will you try to take 
me on trust, to believe in me, and not to ask 
too many questions ? I'm not particularly good 
at explaining things. But I assure you that it 
is best for you to accept your mother's decision, 
best for her too. Will you take my word for 
that ? " 

Marjorie hesitated. 

He held out his hand. " Try ! " he urged. 

She gave him her own, albeit not very willingly. 
" I am not quite a child, you know," she said. 

" I know," he answered. " You ought to put 
your hair up, and then I should remember to 
treat you with proper respect." 

She flushed suddenly and inexplicably, re- 
membering the count's leave-taking. 

But Hugo passed easily on, quite unconscious 
of her confusion. " Do you know I think we 
ought to be going ? I have a sort of family- 
coach waiting in the road. The fellow will come 
up for your luggage. Where is your mother ? " 

" I will take you to her," Marjorie said. " And 
then I had better go and dress." 

All desire to weep had left her now. She felt 
again that sensation of coldness, of numbness, 
of not caring what happened to her. Nothing 
seemed real. All the vivid colouring of the 
morning had died away. life was grey and 
. empty. Her mother did not want her. 

She took Hugo to her door, and went away 
to make her final preparations. As one in a 
dream, she got ready for her journey. The 
future was all blank before her. The past had 
""^faflen^away. All the old landmarks were gone. 
She felt dazed, wholly unlike herself. 

When she entered her mother's room, it was 
like entering the presence of a stranger. Hugo 
rose at her coming, and moved aside. She 
realized that his intention was to efface himself, 
and she wondered why. The moments were 
passing quickly, so quickly ; and everything 
was blurred and indistinct. She would not have 
noticed him in any case. 

There came a few seconds of blinding pain 

while,- her mother's arms clasped her — a few- 
seconds of anguished wonder at the unseen and 
uncomprehended force that was parting them* 
And during those seconds she clung desperately 
close, as one seeking refuge. 

But it was all over very quickly. She never 
knew afterwards quite how the parting . came, 
She had a hazy impression of her mother's face, 
white and exhausted, on the cushion ; of old Marie 
stooping over her; and then of a firm hand that 
took her'own arm and led her steadily away. 

When she came out of that dreadful night- 
mare, all choked and convulsed with tears, she 
was crouched in the corner of a lumbering vehicle 
with Hugo by her side. 

His hand was clasping hers, but he did not 
speak at all ; and presently he gently took his 
hand away. 

Thereafter the darkness seemed to engulf her, 
such a darkness as could be felt. And through 
it the horse's hoofs hammered perpetually, while 
the wheels of destiny rumbled in their wake. 




"What a angularly beautiful face!" Mrs. 
Lingarde, the Bishop's wife, gave her husband 
a sharp nudge to attract his attention, " No. 
John, no 1 You are looking in quite the wrong 
direction. Follow my eyes I I can't point." 

The Bishop obediently turned his mild eyes 
upon her face ; then, witlrhis usual deliberation, 
adjusted his glasses and looked benevolently 
forth upon that portion of the gay crowd below 
them upon which his wife was pointedly gazing. 

It was the first of June, a date set apart lor 
the annual garden fit* at the Palace in aid of 
the Cathedral upkeep. The Palace gardens were 
always at their best at that time of the year, 
and there were no restrictions. All who bought 
tickets could wander whithersoever they wouM. 
On the little island on the lake a string band 
was playing, and the strains lilted across the 
water like fairy-music. 

The Bishop and his wife received their own 
particular friends upon the terrace, and from 
here they looked forth .over the shifting crowd 
that roamed at will about their domain. In the 
evening there would be fireworks, but during 
the afternoon the band, the refreshment-tents, 
the gardens, and the boats that plied about the 
lake were the only forms of entertainment 
provided. No one seemed to want anything 
more ; everyone looked happy. It was a 
glorious day, and all the mothers of Coin; 
Regis had brought their babies to thefSU. ' 
gardens were full of gossiping groups. 

The particular group upon which Mrs. ) 
garde's attention was focused stood agains 
great bank of flowering rhododendrons. It 1 
composed of several children, an old lady 
black, nervously upright and alert, and a giri 
girl whose beauty shone like a dazzling flo 
among lesser flowers. She was stooping over < 
of the children to ifastert a. trailing sash-rib K 
and her c!elte*t© Fi*ce was fluked zuid merry. 




" Is she not exquisite ? " murmured Mrs. 
Lingarde. " Who can she be, I wonder ? " 

"She is with the little Rossiters," observed 
the Bishop, who knew everyone. " And the old 
lady is Miss Lacey, who lives at The Grey House 
with that young fellow who sang the funny songs 
at the concerts last winter. Dear- me ! What is 
his name ? I know it as well as my own." 

" Do you mean Mr. Quentin ? " said Mrs. 

" Yes, yes, to be sure — Hugo Quentin. Poor 
old Miss Lacey lost all her money, and he adopted 
her, or so the story goes. Can he have adopted 
this pretty girl too, I wonder ? " The Bishop's 
eyes twinkled. " Or is she a find of my Lady 
Rossiter's ? " 

" That," said the Bishop's wife, with decision, 
"is what I mean to know before I am very 
much older." 

She threw her husband a smile, and passed 
him to the steps that led down to the garden. 

The little party by the rhododendrons had 
divided before she arrived upon the scene. Two 
of the children had run round the great bank 
of purple flowers to hide, and the girl in white, 
the object of her quest, with two tiny boys in 
sailor suits clinging to her hands, had started 
in pursuit. 

" She is Eke a brash rose," murmured the 
Bishop's wife. 

She reached the old lady, who was evidently 
stationed as a home for the players, and held 
out a cardial hand. 

" Miss Lacey, isn't it ? Yes, I thought so. 
Are you obliged to stand there in the broiling 
sun ? Won't you come into the shade ? Or, 
better still, let me ofjer you tea on the terrace I 
It is much cooler there." 

Miss Lacey looked greatly surprised. She 
knew Mrs. Lingarde, of course, but that Mrs. 
Lingarde should know her was a distinction 
to which she had never ventured to aspire. She 
was almost too fluttered to reply. 

" How kind of you ! " she managed to say at 
last. . " How very kind t But I am here with 
dear Marjorie and the little Rossiter children. 
I must not leave them." 

" Oh, they must come too," smiled the Bishop's 
wife, and she waited beside Miss Lacey till, with 
shrieks and laughter, the children came scamper- 
ing back. 

Marjorie was carrying the smallest boy on her 
shoulder. Her glowing face was upturned. She 
did not see Mrs. lingarde. The child had 
snatched at a rhododendron-flower in passing, 
»»d was showering the petals all about her. 

" My dear ! How naughty ! " protested Miss 

icey, much disturbed. " What will Mrs. 

igarde think ? " 

* Perhaps she won't know 1 " laughed Mar- 


And then very suddenly she realized Mrs. 

ingarde's presence, and blushed vividly all 

rer her fair face. 

But Mrs. lingarde came swiftly to the rescue. 

My dear child, you are welcome to every flower 
the garden," she said. " I have just been 

'iing Miss Lacey to come and have tea on the 

terrace. Bring the little ones, won't you ? I 
am sure they must all be very hot and thirsty." 

Marjorie lowered her burden to the ground. 
Like Miss Lacey, she was considerably over- 
awed by the unexpected appearance of the 
Bishop's wife. She glanced at the old lady 
inquiringly; then, perceiving her to be even 
more flustered than she was herself, she con- 
quered her own embarrassment and made reply. 

" Thank you. We should like to come. I will 
try to make the little ones behave nicely ; but 
I'm not sure that I can." 

She smiled with the words, a sweet and 
winning smile, and Mrs. Lingarde was enchanted. 

"Come along then, all of you!" she said. 
" I want to introduce you to the Bishop," she 
added to Marjorie. "But I haven't heard your 
name yet." 

" My name is Quentin," said Marjorie. 

" Marjorie Quentin ! What a pretty name ! " 
commented Mrs. Lingarde. " I think I must 
call you Marjorie. May I ? " 

" Of course," said Marjorie. " I like it best." 
She drew nearer to the Bishop's wife with the 
words, for none knew better how to inspire 
confidence in those she liked. 

Mrs. Lingarde slipped a hand through her arm 
and patted it. " And you have come to live 
here ? " she asked her, kindly: 

" For the present," said Marjorie, with slight 

" How nice, dear child ! You must let me 
see something of you. 1 know Mr. Hugo Quentin 
quite well; He is your elder brother ? " 

" No," Marjorie said, a hint of reserve in her 
voice, " We are second cousins." 

" Oh, really ! " Mrs. Lingarde looked momen- 
tarily surprised. " And Miss Lacey takes care 
of you ? " she questioned, swiftly recovering. 
" What a happy party 1 " 

Marjorie smiled with a hint of constraint. 
Now that her game with the children was over 
she looked older, and there was less spontaneity 
about her. ~ 

" Cousin Hugo is away all day," she said; 
" very often at night, too. I don't see a great 
deal of him." 

" Ah I He is a busy man," commented Mrs. 
Lingarde. " I must ask him to bring you to 
dine. I will send you a card, Miss Lacey." 

" You are very kind — most kind," twittered 
Miss Lacey. " But I go out so httle in the even- 
ing. I am afraid of the chill." 

" What a deadly existence for a young girl ! " 
was Mrs. Lingarde's inward comment. Aloud 
she said, briskly, " Ah, well, you and Marjorie 
must come to luncheon some day. Now, children, 
mind the steps I There is the Bishop waiting 
for you. You all know him." 

There was a general scamper on the part of 
the children to reach him, and all further talk 
became impossible for the time. Marjorie's 
attention was concentrated upon. the care of her 
little charges, and she had none to spare for 
anything else. 

The Bishop was interested in her, however, 
and when tea 'aray weir he came and sat down 







" I wonder if you are related to Dermot 
Quentin, the astronomer," he said. 

Marjorie looked tip quickly. " He was my 
father. Did you know him ? " 

" Your father I Was he indeed ? " The Bishop 
looked at her momentarily with an expression 
she did not understand. Then, " Yes, I knew 
him well," he said* " He was a wonderful man. 
His death was a great loss to science/' 

" I don't remember much about him/* Mar- 
jorie said, frankly, " I expect lie thought more 
of science than anything else." 

There was a touch of compassion about the 
Bishop's smile, "He certainly gave up a good 
deal of himself to it," he said, 

Mar j one's eyes were upon Mca with eager 
interest, " And my mother ? |J she questioned, 
" Do you know her ? " 

The Bishop hesitated for a second. Then, 
" Yes, I have met her/* he said, 4( But it is 
years ago now." 

" But you couldn't forget her," Marjorie said, 
" She is so beautiful/' 

Again the Bishop hesitated. He looked oddly 
embarrassed, she thought. "I did not know 
your mother so well," he said, gently, at Jength. 

A curious little sense of chill came upon 
Marjorie, He did not want to talk about her 

mother, That was like Hugo, who never volun- 
tarily mentioned her name. She wondered why, 

Voltano's words, spoken in anger on that fir^t 
evening of their meeting, flashed upon her, Her 
mother had quarrelled with her father's family. 
Tli ere had been an estrangement then. But why 
had she never been told ? Why had Hugo 
refused so firmly to answer her questions ? She 
felt banlcd and hurt, It was not fair of Hugo 
to keep her in the dark. 

*The Bishop's wife came and bent over her. 
*' I have just caught sight of your cousin iu the 
garden/' she said. " I expect he is looking for 
you, Shall we go and find him ? " 

Marjorie rose with alacrity. She had a feeling 
that the Bishop was relieved also by the inter 
ruption* She moved away with Mrs. Linga 
glad to feel the pressure of the plump hand 
her arm, 

" I hope you will let me see more of > 
dear," her hostess said " I am a very b 
woman, but I mean to have a secretary — c 
with a pretty, bright face like yours for choice 
she smiled upon Marjorie, " and then I s> 
have more time to spare for my friends " 

Marjorie's trouble passed like a cloud, 
smiled back, her en to, suuriy smile, " You wr 

want ffiffetyft ff'frdtfffffiAfft me '" she r 



"Ob, no, dear. I want someone who would 
be a daughter to me — someone I can spoil." 
laughed the Bishop's wife, who had never had 
a child of her own. " Ah 1 There is your cousin ! 
He* is coining .our way. What a nice fellow he 
is ! I have always liked him." 

" Everyone likes him," said Marjorie, but she 
did not endorse the general opinion as Mrs. 
Lingarde somewhat obviously expected. 

Hugo reached them, quiet, courteous, serene. 
He was always cool, it seemed to Marjorie, even 
in the hottest weather. 

" I got back by fen earlier train/' he explained 
to Mrs, lingarde, " so came on here to find Miss 
Lacey and my cousin. 

" And we have already made friends," said 
Mis. Lingarde. " Miss Lacey is up on the 
terrace with the little Rossiters. Now listen to 
me, Mr. Quentinl Let her take the children 
home, and you and Marjorie stay to dinner! 
We shall be quite an informal party, and the 
fireworks will be well worth seeing, I assure you." 

Hugo looked at Marjorie. During the fort- 
night that had elapsed since their return to 
England her existence had been a very quiet 
one. She had settled down with his old friend 
at The Grey House without any apparent dis- 
content or boredom ; but by her very submission 
he was aware that she was not happy. Her 
candour, her gaiety, all the effervescence of her 
youth, seemed to have vanished, giving place to 
a delicate reserve which he found quite im- 
penetrable. He would have given much to have 
recalled the child who had first so spontaneously 
accosted him, but she seemed to be beyond his 
roach, and it was not in him to seek to tread 
forbidden ground. He shrank, moreover, from 
reopening a subject upon which he was power- 
less to speak openly. He had been trusting to 
time to restore her natural lightness of heart, and 
Mrs. Iingarde's invitation would have been a 
very welcome one, but Jie was not quite certain 
of Marjorie. He looked to her to read her 

She met his eyes at once, but with that aloof 
expression with which she always regarded him 
now, and she said nothing whatever. 

" Thank you very much," Hugo said, turning 
to Mrs. Lingarde. " It rests with Marjorie." 

" Wouldn't you Kke to stay, dear child ? " 
questioned her new friend. " We sha'n't have 
anyone alarming, I assure you," 

Marjorie 's smile shone out again. It was only 
to Hugo, it seemed, that her soul was barred. 
"Yes, thank you, I should hke to stay," she 
said. "That is, if Miss Lacey really doesn't 
1 d." 

Miss Lacey minds' nothing that doesn't 
■ ail being late to bed," observed Hugo. " We 
1 stn't ask her to sit up for us, that's all." 

[hey went back to the terrace, and the rest 
j the afternoon slipped pleasantly away. 
- rforie blossomed hke a flower in the sunshine. 
! t was more like her merry self than she had 
1 en since leaving BeHeroche. It was as if the 
1 ad that had overhung hef ever since had 
J ienly lifted. She forgot to be shy or con- 
1 ned. L^j< 

They watched the fireworks from the terrace 
after dark had fallen. It was a beautiful night, 
still and starry. The garden below was full of a 
thousand scents. The lake blazed like a jewel 
in the many flashing lights. Marjorie was deeply 
fascinated, eager as a child. 

When it was ovtr at last, she turned to Mrs. 
Lingarde with a great sigh. " Oh, I have enjoyed 
it so ! I wish it wasn't ended. Why do nice 
things last such a very short time, I wonder ? " 

The Bishop's wife smiled and kissed her. "I 
hope there are a great many nice things in store 
for you, my child," she said. 

Marjorie sighed again, rather wistfully. " One 
never knows till they're over how they are going 
to end," she said. 



Walking home again with Hugo through the 
soft dusk of the summer night the shadow 
descended again. Marjorie grew quieter and 
quieter till at length she dropped into almost 
* complete silence. 

Hugo talked on in his kindly/ casual way. 
No doubt she was tired. 

They reached The Grey House, standing in 
its dainty, well-ordered garden. The air was 
full of the scent of roses. They twined over the 
old porch, filling it with their sweetness. 

Hugo paused here to unlock the door ; Mar- 
jorie stood outside with her face to the stars. 
He opened the door, then turned and quietly 
joined her. They stood in utter silence side by 

Marjorie moved at length with a slightly 
embarrassed gesture. She was not accustomed 
to silence from Hugo. He spoke at once. " It 
seems a shame to turn in on a night like this." 

She turned her face resolutely inwards. " But 
it's getting very late," she said. " It must be." 

He followed her in, pausing to bolt the door. 
She waited for him in the old square hall. 

As he came forward at length, she spoke 
rather hurriedly. " Cousin Hugo, I want to say 
something to you. May I say it now ? " 

" Of course," said Hugo. 

She stood hesitating under the dimly-burning 
lamp. Her face was pale, and there was un- 
mistakable distress in her blue eyes. 

" What is it ? " said Hugo, kindly. " Don't 
be agitated I " 

" It — is rather a difficult thing to say," she 

" Come into the dining-room ! " he suggested. 

He opened the door with the words, and half- 
mechanically she entered. There was a tray 
of refreshments on the table. He went to it, 
poured out a glass of milk, and offered it to her. 

She took it from him, but she did not drink. 
He turned aside, adjusted the lamp, and picked 
up a letter that lay on the table. 

Then, as she still did not speak, he opened 
and began to read it. 

Several minutes passed away. 

Marjorie stood with the glass of milk in he* 
hand, waiting. Q 

He looked up at length, folded the letter, and 



laid it aside. " Please excuse me ! You were 
going to say something. What was it ? " he 

She glanced at him rather piteously. " You 
won't be vexed ? " she said. 

He smiled at the question. * " You are not 
afraid of me, surely ! No one ever was before." 

" No — no. Not afraid. Only — only — I don't 
want to — to make you think me horrid," she 
said, on the verge of tears. 

" I shall always think of you as the nicest little 
girl in the world/' said Hugo, in his matter-of- 
fact way. " I can't say more than that, can I ? " 

She shook her head. " Please don't laugh ! 
It's — it's serious." 

" I am serious," declared Hugo, and came to 
her with the words. He laid a*very gentle hand 
on her shoulder. " What is the trouble, Mar- 
jorie ? Tell me ! " 

She looked at him piteously, as i£ she found 
his kindness very hard to bear, Then, with an 
effort, " Cousin Hugo," she said, " I — want to go 
back to my mother." 

" I — see." Hugo spoke slowly. He was 
bending slightly towards her, for the light was 
dim. " You can't be happy away from her ? 
Is that it ? " 

She nodded. " You are so kind," she whis- 
pered. " I feel — such a pig — to ask you. But 
— oh, Hugo — I feel as if — as if — there were a 
great cloud — hanging between us. What is it ? 
What is it ? Why was I taken away from her ? 
I want her so ! I want her ! " She broke down, 
hiding her face. 

He put his arm round her, so that she leaned 
against him. " Oh, Marjorie, my dear, don't 
cry — don't cry I " he said. 

" I can't help it I " sobbed Marjorie, and 
suddenly turned and clung to him, with quiver- 
ing, beseeching face upraised. " Oh, Hugo, do 
take me back to her ! Do I Do 1 " she begged 
him, brokenly. 

His arm tightened about her for a moment, 
and then very swiftly relaxed again. He 
stiffened himself, and she saw his mouth harden. 
" Marjorie, I can't," he said. 

But she clung to him still with passionate 
entreaty. " Don't refuse 1 It's breaking my 
heart. Of course, I know you have a reason. 
But no reason on earth can be big enough to 
keep me away from my own mother. Oh, Hugo, 
I thought at first that she wanted to get rid of 
me, but I know now how ridiculous, how absurd, 
it was to think such a thing. It was all for my 
sake — because you had offered to take me. 
And it was so awfully kind of you, dear Hugo. 
I know that. I'm not ungrateful. But it hurt 
me so to be sent away like that, and I was horrid 
to her — I was horrid. I want to go back — if it's 
only to kiss her just once more.' Oh, don't look 
like that — so hard, so grim ! You're not like that, 
really. It isn't your nature/* She stopped, 
panting, terribly agitated, her sweet face strained 
and anguished, her eyes imploring him. 

He put up a restraining hand, and laid it on 
her head, drawing it to rest. once more against 
his shoulder. "What do you know about my 
nature, Marjorie ? " he said. 

She quivered at the question, but she answered 
it through choking tears. " I know that you are 
kind — your heart is kind. It isn't in you to be 
cruel. If — if you knew how dreadfully—how 
dreadfully — I "want this thing — you couldn't — 
you couldn't refuse — for any reason." 

" Could I not V % Hugo said. But his hand 
remained upon the golden head, stroking, sooth- 
ing. " Wouldn't you sooner hurt someone you 
loved than give them something which you knew 
would be bad for them ? " he asked. 

She caught at his hand, drew it down, and 
passionately kissfed it. " Hugo — Hugo — let me 
go to her 1 " she prayed. " I don't care a rap if 
it's bad for me or not. Only — only — let me 
go ! " 

He made a sharp movement as if to withdraw 
his hand, but instantly checked himself. " You're 
pressing me — horribly hard," he said, in a low 

She kissed the hand again, piteously, implor- 
ingly. It was all wet with her tears. "Oh, 
don't refuse ! You can't ! You can't ! " she 

He stood in silence, suffering her. 

" It means — everything— to me," she went on. 
" I can't tell you what it means. Hugo, why 
are you so hard to move ? It isn't like you. It 
isn't— you I " 

But still he stood in silence, neither yielding 
nor resisting. It was almost as if he waited for 
a sign. 

She was holding his hand against her face, and 
she felt his fingers close, pressing her cheek, but 
very slowly, as if to give her time to free herself 
if she desired. But she only buried her face a 
little deeper into his breast. 

" I don't care what it costs," she sobbed. 
" I'll make any sacrifice — do anything you ask 
— if you will only — only grant me this one thing. 
Oh, Hugo, you can do it I Won't you — won't 
you ? " 

He moved at last, moved as if the sign had 
come, and with quiet decision he, turned her 
face upwards and held it so. "Marjorie," he 
said, " I am going to say something that will 
amaze you ; but you needn't be afraid. There's 
nothing in it to frighten you. I can do it— as 
you say. I can do it." He paused, looking 
straight down into her swimming eyes. " But 
only on one condition." 

• He took out his handkerchief and gently 
wiped away the tears. 

She caught his hands in hers. " I will do it, 
dear Hugo. I will do it ! " she said, eagerly. 

" Ah I Wait a minute 1 That is just the 
danger with you," he said, his mouth fa^tly 
quizzical: " You don't stop to think.* he 
condition is a pretty big one. It is just thi If 
I take you back to your mother, I must ve 
the right and the power to protect you. fy 
present position is an anomalous one. Nomii iy. 
I am your guardian ; actually, I am noi ng 
more than a distant relation. If I take ou 
back, I must have full powers. You mus ve 
m,e those powers." 

Her hands were still clasped upon his. he 
met his loot with absolute confidence. " iN 




do anything, dear Hugo — anything ! " she said, 
very earnestly. 

" Will you ? " he said. " I wonder. You 
don't know what it entails yet, and, on my soul, 
I don't know quite how to break it to you." 

She smiled a quivering, rainbow smile. " I 
sha'n't mind anything," she declared. " Tell me 
just what I'm to do — and I'll do it. I promise 
111 do it." 

His face changed a little as he looked at her. 
The quizzical lines vanished, leaving it un- 
wontedly sad. " Oh, child ! " he said. " I feel 
as if I'm taking a mean advantage, but it's the 
only way. If you can't be happy unless I take 
you back to your mother, you must put yourself 
entirely in my hands before we go. In other 
words — you must marry me. Now — what will 
you say ? " 

She started a little, indeed, but it was with 
no backward movement, no suggestion of 
shrinking. " Marry you, Hugo ! " she said, her 
delicate brows drawn together. " But — but — 
what a funny idea ! " 

Hugo '8 faint smile reappeared. " Yes, isn't 
it ? Monstrous funny ! Can you bring yourself 
to do it ? That's the question." 

She looked at him for a moment with puzzled 
eyes ; then very oddly she too began to smile. 
" But I said I would do — anything," she said. 

" That's the point," said Hugo. " Are you 
sore this wouldn't be too hard a thing ? It 
means giving yourself to me for good, you know. 
There'll be no getting out of it again, once it's 

Her smile deepened, and with it a beautiful 
flush came up over her pale face, blotting out 
all her distress. " Dear Hugo, as if I'd mind — 
that ! " she said, and, bending again very sweetly, 
she kissed the hands she held. 

They turned and clasped her own. He stooped 
over her. " Marjorie I " he said, in a whisper. 

She looked up swiftly, and in a second her 
arms were around his neck. " Oh, Hugo, darling, 
thank you — thank you ! " she said, and like a 
child she lifted her lips to his. " Yon are good 
to me — much too good ! " 

He held her closely, but he kissed her only 
once. " I swear I always will be," he said, under 
his breath. 



When Marjorie left The Grey House with Miss 
Lacey to travel up to town three days later, her 
thoughts were all with the mother to whom she 
was returning. Of the event that loomed 
be een her and that joyful return she thought 
sc iely at all. She was in a fever of anticipation, 
toi ng to reach the journey's end, and the 
in is by which she was to accomplish that 
jo icy and attain her heart's desire hardly 
en 1 into her calculations. 

3 had gone up to town on the day follow- 
h "ie garden fete at the Palace, and had 
re incd there, leaving instructions with Miss 
L /to bring his young bride-elect to Join him 
* a three cLiys. 

ict them at the terminus, looking so 

exactly as usual that Marjorie could not feel 
that anything extraordinary was about to 
happen. In his calm, concise fashion he told 
them of the arrangements he had made. The 
marriage would take place at a City church in 
the afternoon, and. he and Marjorie would leave 
at once to catch the night-boat to Calais. Mis3 
Lacey, to her openly-expressed satisfaction, 
would be back at The Grey House before sunset. 
Like Marjorie, she looked to the ultimate rather 
than to intermediate happenings, and, though 
surprised by the turn of events, she was not 
disconcerted. Hugo had done sudden things 
before ; but he was a dear, conscientious felk>w, 
and her faith in him was unbounded. She was 
fond of Marjorie too, and, though somewhat 
precipitate, the arrangement met with her full 
approval. She looked forward to returning to 
Compton Regis and being the first to impart 
the news. Everyone would be coming to her 
for details ; for was it not actually falling to her 
to give away the bride ? 

•Hugo took them to a private hotel, and left 
them there. " We shall meet at the church," 
he said, at parting. " Three o'clock ! Don't 
forget ! " 

He looked at Marjorie, who sprang up and 
went along the corridor with him, hugging his 
arm. " It feels just like a play ! " she said. 

He pinched her flushed cheek. " It won't feel 
like that always," he said. " Good-bye ! " 

She lifted her face for his kiss with the utmost 
simplicity. " I'm not minding it a bit," she 
said, naively. " I should, you know, if it were 
anyone but you." 

" That's a compliment, is it ? " questioned 
Hugo. " Thank you." 

When she had watched him go she went back 
to coach herself afresh in the wedding service. 

" Ah, there now ! " said Miss Lacey. " If I 
haven't forgotten to give him his letters I Is it 
too late to run after him ? " 

It was too late ; but Marjorie took charge of 
the letters. She would give them to him after 
the service. 

So for the next hour she busied herself, quiet- 
ing an occasional cold qualni of nervousness 
with the thought that she was on her way to 
her mother. To be married to Hugo was but a 
detail in comparison with that. Besides, he was 
such an entirely safe person. She had seen him 
look grim more than once, but never once had 
she seen him lose his temper. 

" He just couldn't," she decided, as she pored 
over her Prayer Book. " I needn't in the least 
mind promising to obey him." 

She had never given any very serious thought 
to marriage. She had always supposed that she 
^would marry some day, but she had lived too 
much in the present to spend much thought upon 
her future. Of the worlo and men she knew 
nothing. As she had told Hugo at the beginning 
of their acquaintance, the whole of her know- 
ledge had been gathered from books, and those 
books had been only such as a very prim school- 
mistress had permitted her to read. She was 
utterly untrained m the 'ways, of the world. AU 
things pertaining to hit itself had been most 



sedulously kept from her. Her innocence was 
of the quality of an unopened flower. She knew 
nothing, and only vaguely realized that theVe 
was anything to know. 

The thought of being Hugo's wife did not 
seem to her one of paramount importance. Now 
that he had given way to her, she decided that 
she would much rather marry him than anyone 
else, He was so kind. 

And so, when the time came at last, she rose 
and made ready with a feeling of adventure that 
drove away misgiving. It certainly felt Eke a 

They drove through the crowded summer 
streets to the door of the City church, It was 

They reached the top of the church, and sat 
down dose to the chancel-steps. The quiet of 
the place lay like a benediction all about them. 
Miss Lacey knelt to pray, but Marjorie safe with 
her hand still in Hugo's, wondering a little at 
the strange gladness that filled her heart 

Miss Lacey's prayer came to an end, and she 
seated herself and turned to the girL " My 
dear, hadn't you better give your cousin hi 
letters ? I'm sure you'll forget," she whispered. 

" Oh p of course/' Marjorie pulled them out 
of her bag. " Here, they are, Cousin Hugo! 
Why, one J '— she glanced at it as she passed it— 
" one has a French stamp 1 But I don't know 
the writing. J ' 


AS HE READ," ■ i 

cool and dark inside, a single bar of misty sun- 
shine piercing the gloom. They were early, but 
Hugo was there before them. He came down 
the long aisle and met them by the door. 

The faint smile that Marjorie had grown to 
associate with him was about his lips, as he took 
her hand into his own. " Nervous ? " he asked 

She shook her head. "Not really. There's 
nothing to be frightened at» is there ? " 

" Nothing, I should say," said Hugo, " Come 
and sit up in the top pew I We are a little 
before time," 

He led her thither, Miss Lacey walking some- 
what primly on her other side, Hugo's presence 
drove the last shadow of misgiving from Mar- 
jorie *s mind* It suddenly became the most 
natural thing in the world to be in that dim old 
church with him beside her. She squeezed Ms 
hand and smiled at hiajl.Vji OG ^ 

11 I'll look at them presently/ 1 said Hugo. 
But she leaned towards him eagerly. " Please 

open the French one now 1 I want to know 

what's in it." 

He hesitated momentarily ; but in the ead 

he complied. She watched his face as he read- 
It told her nothing whatever. His eyes 

travelled down the page, paused for a 1 

seconds, and then looked up to hers* 
" What is it ? " she breathed. 
He faced her steadily for a moment or 

then quietly folded the letter and put it a 

44 I will tell you about it presently/' he 

" Time's up." He rose with the words ; 

she put out a quick hand, detaining him. 

me t anyway, if all is well 1 " she urged, 

sudden misgiving. 

" All is well," he made quiet answer 

gently drew her £m her feet. 





dream. She was not thinking of Hugo at all 
just then, but of the mother to whom he had 
promised to take her. She had not had a letter 
for several days, and if the prospect of so soon 
seeing her had not diverted her thoughts she 
; would have been anxious. Not that it had even 
occurred to her that her mother could be really 
ilL She knew nothing of illness, and since she 
had not kept her bed it did not seem to her that 
there could be anything serious the matter. 

But for those few moments she had been 
anxious. She had felt as if a cold hand had 
touched her, and she longed to get through the 
service quickly, so that sh4 could hear what that 
letter in an unknown hand contained. She re- 
assured herself with the reflection that he would 
not have said that all was well had there been 
anything wrong, but her impatience remained, 
I and she could scarcely hide it. After all, her 
mother came first; it was not as if she were 
marrying for love- 
She got through her part with a readiness that 
astonished, even slightly scandalized, Miss Lacey, 
f who had expected that so young a bride' would 
have needed hear support. She was relieved on 
the whole, however, for she herself had been 
anxious about the homeward train, and Marjorie's 
\ alacrity made her hope that she might even have 

the good fortune to catch an earlier one. 
| They had arranged to separate at the church- 

door, since Hugo and Marjorie were going direct 
to Charing Cross, and Miss Lacey determined to 
make good her escape as soon as she had signed 
the register. She breathed a sigh of relief when 
1 the service was over, and hurried after them 
into the vestry to announce her intention. 

"You won't need me any more now, my 
dear," she said, as she kissed Marjorie's flushed 
face. M I wish you both every blessing. And 
now if you will kindly excuse me I think I might 
catch the four o'clock train down." 

" Perhaps you would like to sign first," sug- 
gested Hugo. 

She thanked him for his consideration, it was 
•o like him to think of it, and hastened to accept 
i the offer. 

" After all, I taught him his nice manners," 

she reflected, as she hastened away ; "sol think 

I am entitled to profit by them now and then." 

She had been his mother's governess, and had 

taught him his earliest lessons. 

Marjorie watched her departure with a 
dimpling face. " Funny old dear t " she mur- 
mured. " She did so hate coming up to town. 
It was very good of her to do it." 
J "- signed her name in a sprawling, girlish 

! ha 1, and then nudged Hugo to make him come 
■ an ', for the clergyman who had married them 
1 wa & a somewhat garrulous turn. " I'm getting 
| an us about our train now," she explained. 
" J ould be so dreadful to miss the boat." 

[o was considerate once more. He dis- 
ci* ^ed himself as soon as possible, and they 
pa sd down the church together, and out into 
tin -owded street once more. 

ir awaited them, and he put her into it, 
th< , jvith a word to the chauffeur, followed her. 
Th **-%e& away into a dense thoroughfare. 

Eagerly Marjorie turned to the man at her 
side. " Now tell me I " she said. " That letter 
— I do so want to know what was in it." 

He took the hand she laid on his arm. " Wait 
a little," he said. 

With difficulty she controlled her impatience, 
for something in his manner seemed to insist 
upon her doing so. She tried to amuse herself 
with the varied crowd through which they were 
passing, but all the while her heart was clamour- 
ing within her, and she felt on edge with suspense. 
Hugo did not speak again. He sat, still with 
his hand on hers, gazing straight before him. 
Inwardly she chafed at his stillness, but she knew 
it was useless to urge him. There was nothing 
for it but to wait. 

The car turned suddenly up a quiet side-street 
and stopped at the corner of a square. Hugo 
leaned forward and opened the door. Marjorie 
stared in amazement. 

"Why — why, this is the hotel where we 
lunched ! I thought we were to go straight to 
Charing Cross 1 " 

" Come in here first I " he said. 
Again something in his manner stilled protest. 
She went with him in quivering silence. 

He took her to the private room that he had 
engaged earlier in the day, shut the door upon 
them, and took both her hands very tenderly, 
very sustainingly, into his. 

" Marjorie, my dear," he said, " you asked 
me a little while ago, when I read that letter, 
if all was well. All is well, my child, but — your 
mother will not need you now. She is — at rest." 
" Hugo ! " She stared at him, wide-eyed, 
uncomprehending. " What — what do you 
mean ? " 

His hold tightened upon her, drawing her 
close. " She died three days ago," he said, simply. 
She stared at him still, half-stupefied by the 
suddenness of the blow. 

•He bent to her. " Marjorie, you have given 
me the right to take care of you. Remember, 
you are not alone." 

He would have drawn her into his arms, but 
very swiftly she resisted him. " Please — please, 
Hugo ! I want to know everything. You say — 
you say — my mother is dead. I suppose it's 
true, but somehow I can't believe it. Will you 
show me the letter ? " 

He took it from his pocket. " It is written by 
a stranger-^-a doctor. It gives no more than the 
bare fact. She died on the first of June — three 
days ago — in the evening. The trouble was 

" That — that was the night I begged you to 
take me to her," Marjorie said, speaking slowly, 
as one dazed. " I — I felt then as if — as if she 
were calling me. Hugo — Hugo, why did I leave 
her ? " 

He did not answer her. Though she had 
resisted, almost repulsed, him, he had kept one 
hand in his — the hand that wore his ring. He 
was ready, he was waiting, to comfort her. But 
she did not seem to want comfort. She was 
looking at him strangely, almost as though she 
did not wholly trust Mm. " Why didn't you tell 
me of this before ? " sire asked him, 



Her voice was very low. It almost seemed to 
quiver on the edge of an accusation. He met 
her look with his usual quiet assurance. " It 
was not the time," he said. " I couldn't tell you 
then." * 

She made a little gesture of non-comprehension. 
" You — I suppose you thought it would have 
stopped the service — upset your plans ? " 

" Partly that," he said. 

" And if it had," said Marjorie, " what would 
it, have mattered ? I — I didn't specially want 
to many y*u." 

" I kpow," Hugo said. 

He seemed on the verge of saying more, but 
changed his mind, and closed his lips instead. 

Marjorie looked downwards at the hand he 
still held. " I can't understand," she said. 
" That was all we were getting married for, so 
that we could go back to my mother together, 
and you could take care of me. Wasn't that the 
reason ? " 

" Perhaps not the only reason," Hugo said, 
gently. " I wanted the right to take care ox 
you, you know. I want it still." 

" I can't see that it matters now," Marjorie 

She freed her hand and sat down. She seemed 
to have lost all her vitality. The very vividness 
of her beauty seemed to have faded. And over 
her like a veil descended that strange reserve 
which had overhung her during those few weeks 
at The Grey House. She looked almost too tired 
to feel. 

' Hugo sat on the edge of the table close to her. 
Marjorie in this mood was so utterly different 
from the Marjorie who had clung to him with 
such an abandonment of pleading a few nights 
before that he seemed afraid of intruding upon 
her. He could not offer comfort when she 
apparently did not need it. He could only let 
her feel he was at hand. 

She took no notice of him for many seconds. 
She was as one lost in thought. Her head was 
bent, her brows drawn. 

At last, with a deep sigh, she looked up, 
44 What are we going to do now ? " she asked. 

He met her eyes very gravely and kindly. 
* f I will do — whatever you wish," he said. 

" I don't see that it matters," she said again. 

He put his hand on her shoulder. " Marjorie, 
let 'me take you back to The Grey House and 
try to make you happy there I M 

She made a sharp movement ; it was almost 
a shudder. " No, not there I I couldn't I " 

She was silent again, and Hugo waited also, 
watching her. 

She spoke at length, still with her brows 
drawn in that painful, puzzled fashion. " I don't 
think you ought to have married me. It doesn't 
seem right, somehow. It's done now, I know. 
I suppose it couldn't be undone ? " 

His own brows went up a little, but his mouth 
was momentarily quizzical as he said, " Don't 
you think you might give me a trial before we 
talk ci that ? " 

She did not answer. Only after a second or 
two she stood up with a restless movement and 
faced him. " I know you mean to be kind/' she 

said. " I'm not ungrateful. I can't think pro- 
perly yet. I can't realize. I only know that I 
can't go back with you, and — and play at bang 
married. I've got to — to — somehow to find 
myself — to get hold of life. My mother, I know, 
h^d no money, and, of course, I have none either. 
But I can't be dependent upon you — as I have 
been. I — must make my own living." 

He held out his hand to her. " It isn't unusual 
you know," he said, " for a wife to be entirely 
dependent upon her husband." 

She drew back r. little, an odd, ha If -frightened 
look in her eyes. " Oh, I know," she said. " Not 
for real wives and real husbands. But I am 
different. I- " 

He interrupted her very quietly. " You are 
not really different, my dear. You belong to me 
every whit as much as Mrs. Lingarde belongs to 
the Bishop. We are not playing at being married, 
we are dealing with actual fact. You are sworn 
to me ; and an oath is an oath." 

" Hugo ! " Actual' fear gleamed in her blue 
eyes. She started back still further, looking at 
him like a frightened fawn. 
• His hand was still extended, but she would 
not touch it. He dropped it at last. " I don't 
know why you should be afraid of me," he said, 
in the same calm, restrained voice. ** I have 
never given you any reason to be. I am not 
going to insist on my rights, but I can't have 
them ignored entirely. You must learn to regard 
yourself as my wife. But in Heaven's name, 
child, don't make a bugbear of me ! I'm ready 
to do anything under the sun to make you 

" Happy ! " whispered Marjorie. 

He stood up. " Yes, happy," he repeated. 
" I could make you happy if you would let me. 
If you won't — well, it isn't my way to force 
myself on anyone. Only I must look after you 
to a certain extent. I'm not going to let you 
make a mess of things if I can help it." 

Marjorie was very pale, but she still faced him, 
albeit rather desperately. " You won't try to 
make me live with you at The Grey House ? ** 
she said. 

He shook his head. " I'm not going to make 
you do anything, Marjorie, unless " — he hesitated 
momentarily — " well, unless I am compelled 
myself. Tell me now what it is you want to 

His tone was absolutely kind, but she still 
hung back from him, not wholly trusting him, 
" I can't tell you yet, Hugo. I've got to think. 
Please let me think ! I'll tell you to-morrow." 

" And to-night ? " he questioned. 

She glanced round. M Can't we stay here " 

" If you wish," said Hugo. 

" Then let us do that," she said. "A t— 
and you mustn't mind if I want to be quite a 
You won't mind, will you ? " 

" Poor child ! " he said, softly. " I'll go. 
do you know you would send me away xr tch 
happier if you would kiss me first ? " 

She drew a quick breath. " fco, H\ ;o ! 
Please not ! I'm, not a child any longer i m. 
And there are so many things I've got to jet 
V£i9i ta. 3>on't be vc:cec! irith me, will - a? 






I don't want to vex yon. Only — only- 

" her 
lips suddenly quivered, and she turned away. 

Kngo turned in the same moment, but in the 
opposite direction. " All right, dear/' he said. 
" Have it your own way I Only don't forget 
that I'm here if wanted." 

He went to the door with the words, paused a 
second, then passed out. 

Marjorie stood tensely listening till she was 
sore that he had gone, then flung herself face 
downwards on the sofa in a passion of tears. All 
her world had crumbled to ashes around her, and 
she was alone in the midst of the desolation. If 
only she had not married him, how thankful she 
would have been for the comfort of his presence I 
But now everything was changed ; she knew not 
wherefore. Only the very fact that she had 
given herself to him seemed to estrange her the 
more hopelessly. Her mother was gone. The 
sole reason for her action had ceased to be. And 
she was frightened — frightened as she had never 
been in all her life before. Somehow in -one brief 
half-hour of bewildering, blinding grief he had 
ceased to be her friend and protector, and had 
become her captor. She had believed that his 
reason for desiring the marriage had been 
identical with her own. She knew now that this 
was not so. Iflie4iad only told her first 1 If he 
had only told her first I If he had only given 
her the opportunity to draw back < at the last 
moment ! 

She did not believe that she would have taken 
it, but the fact that he had not given her the 
chance had, at least temporarily, destroyed her 
confidence in Mm. 

She could not accept his comfort. She went 
down into the depths of suffering alone. 



" Hugo Qtjbntin may be — in fact, I believe he 
is — a very nice young man," pronounced the 
Bishop's wife. "But in marrying that little 
cousin of his at a moment's notice he made the 
biggest mistake of his life. Of course, you're a 
man, John. You won't understand. But you 
may take my word for it, so it is." 

The Bishop's eyes twinkled behind their 
glasses. He was always indulgent when his -wife 
spoke her mind. " You are a very able woman, 
my dear," he observed. " Perhaps you will be 
able to rectify it." 

" I shall do my best," she returned with deter- 
mination, " but I am by no means sure that I 
shall succeed. The poor child is quite broken- 
he ted over her loss, but her one idea seems to 
be 1 avoid all reference to it, and to her husband. 

I i 1't understand it. I really can't. I feel as 
if : some reason she is afraid of him. And yet 

I I ft believe that he would be other than kind 
to c — especially at such a time." 

am sure he would not," the Bishop said, 
wi quiet decision. " I presume he married her 
so i to be in a position to take care of her at 
lie -other's death." 

at was the idea, no doubt ; but there is 
so Jng more behind." His wife spoke un- 
ea " T -wild give a good deal to know if 

Hugo is really in love with her. It would 
simplify matters so very much if he were. And 
yet the only time she spoke of her marriage, and 
that was when I almost forced her to do so, she 
assured me that it had been purely one of con- 
venience. I was a little shocked to hear her put 
it in that way, and I am afraid she saw it. Any- 
way, she has not mentioned it since, and I feel 
very worried." 

" Try a little patience, my dear ! " suggested 
the Bishop. 

" That's all very well, John ; but it seems to 
me that the matter is too urgent for that. An 
estrangement may be checked in its beginning, 
but it becomes a fiabit so tragically soon, if left 
alone. I am afraid that too much patience will 
be Hugo's undoing. He ought to have insisted 
upon taking her back with him to The Grey 
House, or, better still, have taken her away for 
a little to recover from the shock. Alone with 
him, she would soon have turned to him for 
comfort. She is such a sweet girl, so lovable 
and eager to please. He must be in love with 
her, John I He wouldn't be human if he weren't 1 
And yet, why, oh, why, did he let her come to 
me to be my paid secretary when she might have 
been, she ought to have been, enjoying her 
honeymoon and forgetting all her troubles with 

" Perhaps he thought your influence would 
be better for her," said the Bishop. " Evidently 
the honeymoon idea did not attract her very 
strongly. She is but a child, you know. She 
has got to grow up. ' I think myself that he was 
very wise not to insist too much upon his rights. 
He will come after her presently, when she has 
got over the worst of her trouble. Poor child ! 
She feels it badly enough no doubt, but it is 
hardly natural that it should last very long. 
She never lived with her mother." 

"'No. Yet she seems to have worshipped 
her," mused Mrs. Lingarde. " She must have 
been a wonderful woman." 

" She was," the Bishop said. " Her beauty 
was amazing. I saw her the year before she left 
poor Dermot. She was altogether too brilliant 
for him, clever in his own line though he un- 
doubtedly was. I never saw a sharper contrast. 
And yet he loved her, loved her so much that he 
never divorced her, swore that he would take, 
her back if only she would go. She never did. 
Of course, he didn't live very long after." The 
Bishop sighed. 

" A case in point ! " declared his wife. " He 
was too patient. He should have gone after her 
and fetched her back by main force if he wanted 
her. She would have respected him then, 
probably have learnt to love him. I suppose 
Marjorie knows nothing of all this ? " 

" Probably not. I imagine it was in part to 
shield her, if ever the knowledge reached her, 
that Hugo married her." 

" But he must be in love with her. He must I 
He must 1 I hope he isn't going to be as silly 
as poor Dermot appears to have been." 

" Is she in love with him ? That's the question," 
said the Bishop. 

" My dear John, she is scarry old enough to 



know the meaning of the word. But I have no 
doubt he could make her love him if he tried. 
And really he ought not to be too patient at this 
stage. Everyone in Compton Regis knows by 
this time that they are married, and living 

" I should imagine that Hugo is the sort of 
young man who wouldn't care a brass farthing 
what anyone said about him/' remarked the 

" Yes ; but he should think of her. He ought 
to think of her. It isn't fair that that lovely girl 
should be the subject of unkind gossip, and I am 
quite powerless to protect her from it. No, there 
is no doubt about it. He ought to insist upon 
her going to him. For her own sake he ought to 
do so. I wish you would tackle him upon the 
matter, John, and tell him just what you think/' 

" Or what you think, my dear," questioned 
the Bishop, mildly humorous. " No, I am 
inclined to think that Hugo is right to be patient ; 
that is, if the marriage was really that abominable 
arrangement called a marriage of convenience. 
Even if he is in love with her, it will do no 
harm to wait till her grief for her mother has 
subsided a little. Of course, she is miserable 
now, poor girl. She is bound to be for a while. 
But it will pass, you know ; it will pass. She 
will begin to look around her for distractions 
presently, and then it will be Hugo's turn. He 
probably realizes that. And I think he showed 
wonderfully good sense in placing her in your 

" She wanted to earn her own living ; so she 
told me." Mrs. Lingarde sounded a little 
dubious. " I didn't feel as if- 1 ought to encourage 
her. But how could I refuse ? Oh, dear me, 
John t There goes that sculptor-man again, on 
his way to the Cathedral ! I do hope he won't 
complicate matters by falling in love with her. 
What should I,do if he did ? " 

" Send for her husband," said the Bishop, 
sensibly. " But I don't think that is very likely 
to happen. He is much too engrossed in his 
study of the carvings. Besides, he is not even' 
our guest." 

" No. ^ I wish Lady Rossiter were not so great 
at encouraging these freaks. She knows nothing 
whatever about him, because I asked her. And 
he is quite disturbingly handsome — Italian, she 
says. A man has only to call himself some sort 
of artist to be received with open arms by the 
Rossiters. I call it vulgar myself — such obvious 
lion-hunting. Well, I only hope Marjorie won't 
meet him, though I am afraid she will. She 
wanders about the Cathedral and cloisters a good 
deal when I am not wanting her. And he is just 
the sort of romantic person to attract a young 
girl's fancy." 

" You seem to be determined to anticipate 
troubles," said the Bishop. " I really do not 
think Marjorie is at all likely to fall in love at 
first sight with anyone." 

" You don't know Marjorie I " declared Mrs. 
Lingarde. " I am not at all sure that she knows 
herself yet. She is capable of very deep feeling. 
When she does fall in love, she will give her 
whole heart. That is why I am anxious — so 

very, very anxious — that Hugo should not be 
too patient. He ought to be up and •doing if he 
means to win her. He ought not to hold aloof 
in this way." 

" He probably knows his own business best/' 
maintained the Bishop. 

" He doesn't. Men never do. In any case, I 
am going to ask him to dine,, and I hope— I do 
hope — that when he comes I shall be able to get 
him to see reason." 

" And I am sure — if good intentions count at 
all — you ought to succeed nobly/' said her 
husband, with his funny little smile. 

But Mrs. Lingarde remained serious. "I^have 
never," she said, " seen anything sadder than 
my little Marjorie's face. I must see her happy. 
I must. I must." 

" If I know Hugo Quentin, I think you need 
not be anxious," the Bishop answered, with 



It was a late afternoon in the very heart of the 
summer. The evening service was over, and 
the Cathedral was empty again. Great bars of 
misty light lay across its pillars and arches, 
touched here and there with purple or with rose. 
Across the altar-steps was flung a great splash 
of crimson that merged by imperceptible shades 
of splendid colour into purest gold. It was like 
the glow of a wonderful dawn. 

The Italian sculptor revelled in that flood of 
burning light. Entering the Cathedral from the 
western end, it caught and held his eyes as by 
some irresistible magic. He turned from the , 
cold marble to feast upon it. 

He was a man of slight build, dark and hand- 
some, with a short, upturned moustache that 
gave his features an arrogant expression. His 
chin was clean-shaven and aggressive, the lower 
lip full, yet possessing a suggestion of cruelty. 
His eyes had a remarkable brightness, black eyes 
and merciless, that glanced from point to point 
unblinking. They did not look as if they ever 

He xroved soundlessly up the great aisle tin 
he reached the chancel-gates, and there he 
stopped, for the gates were closed, and stood 
gazing, gazing through upon that marvellous 
wealth of colour. 

There came a slight sound in the Cathedral 
stillness, and swift as an adder he turned. There 
was something snake-like about his whole 
personality, a sinutus, stealthy quality, as 
though he were ever upon his guard, yet ever 
waiting to strike. 

But in a second his gleaming eyes softc ed, 
for they lighted upon the figure of a girl, >be 
had entered by a small side-door that led mt 
of the cloisters, and she moved forward wit art 
seeing him. She was dressed in black* her iair 
face and golden hair shining out of the sor bre 
garb with a purity almost sublime. She wa ced 
like a nun, with bent head and slow steps, all ost 
as though she feared to intrude in that oly 

The isiai at the ciuLno/4 &ates drew tr as 



she approached. His eyes, watchful and alert, 
marked her every movement. 

She came close to him still without seeing him, 
and suddenly her eyes also were caught by the 
splendour of the holy place. She lifted her face 
vita a sharp, incredulous gasp, and in a moment 
she «ns lost in contemplation of the glory. It 
iras a very sad face, bnt its beauty was as the 

She looked at him quickly. Her face changed*- 
" You I " she said. 

He took the hand she gave him, and closely 
held it. " Bueuo ! You have not forgotten 
me 1 ** he said, 

Her lips quivered , She glanced round, as 
though in search of some private recess where 
they could be alone. 



beauty of a perfect flower. The man's eyes 
kindled 35 they dwelt upon it* 

The intensity oi his gaze must have made itself 
felt at last, for suddenly, after the passage of 
several seconds, she turned her head and saw 

A burning wave oj colour overspread her face* 
and she turned to go + But in that moment he 
maved ahxo t swift and subtle, reaching her ere 
ihc had gone a couple of paces. /"^i/™^0 \p 

" Do yOB not know me ? " he whisper ed, softly. 

He smiled. " There ia a corner behind the 
organ. We will go there. They do n?t close for 
half an hour yet." 

His hand drew her irresistibly ; she went with 
him unquestioning. 

The recess behind the organ was curtained 

away from the rest of the building, and lighted 

only by a small, stained -glass window set deep 

in the stone- It threw a rose-col nu red twilight 

- upon them, smd iJ\e sileiioc was intense, 

Mar]j>M^*^^^^^^ with b^ted 



breath. " I did not know you at first. Why — 
why are you here ? " 

" I have come to see you," he made answer, 
looking at her with those fiery, all-absorbing 
eyes of his. " I had a notion that you would be 
pleased to see me. Was I mistaken ? " 

Her hand still lay in his. She left it there with 
the confidence of a child. " Of course, I am 
pleased," she said. " How kind of you to come ! " 

" Signor Hugo Quentin will not think so," he 
observed, with a gleam of his ^teeth. 

Again her fair face flushed. She did not 
question the statement. " I am not surprised 
that I did not know you," she said. " You look 
quite different." 

He smiled at her words. The absence of the 
imperial altered his face considerably. He 
looked many years younger. " I hope I am not 
less pleasing in your sight," he said. 

She smiled also, a fleeting smile that served 
but to emphasize the sadness of her face. " No ; 
I think it is a great improvement. And I am 
very pleased to see you. I have often wanted 
to explain why-r-how it was — that I left you in 
the lurch that night." 

He made her a ceremonious bow. " No 
explanation is needed," he declared. " You 
are the mistress of your own actions, and none 
possesses the right to question them/' 

Marjorie looked dubious, but she passed the 
matter by. It was nearly three months since 
she had seen him. He had probably almost 
forgotten the episode. But it was evident that 
he had not forgotten her. His presence testified 
to that. 

" Have you come to tell me about my 
mother ? " she questioned, with a beating heart. 
" I have so longed to hear." 

" I have come to tell you — many things," he 
made enigmatic answer. " But first let me 
ask you, why did you marry Hugo Quentin ? " 

Her eyes fell before the piercing brightness of 
his. " I couldn't help it. I wanted — so terribly 
— to get back to Belleroche — to my mother." 

11 And he made that a condition ? " The 
question seemed to pierce her also ; it was so 
direct, so unerring. 
- She bent her head. " Yes. He insisted." 

" Against your will ? " 

There was compulsion in the Italian's voice. 
The gleam of bis eyes was that of the hunter on 
the track of his prey. Marjorie answered as one 
who had no choice. " I had no particular wish 
to marry him, but I would have done anything 
to get back to my mother." 

" Ah ! And do you know why he took you 
away ? Have you guessed yet ? " There was 
a hiss in the words ; they came from between 
clenched teeth. 

Marjorie looked up, meeting the full force of 
his gaze with a quiver that seemed to run through 
every nerve like an electric current. " I know 
nothing/' she said. 

" Nothing ! " he echoed. " Then I will 'tell 
you. Hugo Quentin is a thief, a scoundrel ! He 
is also a murderer I He forced your mother to 
give you up. He broke her heart. He knew that 
she was ill, dying. And he took you away when 

she needed you most. Why, you ask ? Because 
he knew that your mother had quarrelled with 
his family and desired to punish her. Also 
because you are beautiful — you are beautiful ; 
and he wanted you for himself. You find it 
hard to believe me ? Then, why did he force 
you to marry him ? Tell me that I " 

Marjorie was white to the lips. Her eyes, wide 
and terror-stricken, were fixed on his. She was 
trembling from head to foot. 

" But— but," she faltered, " he let me go- 
immediately after we were married. He let 
me come here — because T wished it. I have 
scarcely seen him since." 

" You will see him." There was merciless 
certainty in the rejoinder. " He is playing with 
you as a cat with a mouse, because he knows — 
he knows that you are in his power. He has 
only to close his hand and you are there — a 
prisoner. How can you escape ? How can there 
be any escape in England for a wife who does 
not love her husband ? And let me tell you that 
the life of such a one is not worth living. Your 
mother lived it before you until the misery of it 
overwhelmed her, and she broke away. Are yon 
going to endure the same fate ? Are you going 
to give yourself to ydur mother's murderer ? 
If so " — he raised his shoulders with an expres- 
sive gesture — " bueno, I say good-bye ! " 

He made as if he would leave her, but wildly, 
desperately, she caught at his sleeve. " No — 
no ! Don't go 1 Don't go ! Tell me how I can 
— get away ! " 

It was a piteous appeal. Possibly, had she 
had time to consider, she would not have made 
it. But 'she was taken by surprise, she was 
horror-stricken, by the web of evil in which she 
found herself enmeshed. Her one frantic im- 
pulse was to break free, whatever the cost. The 
six weeks that had elapsed since her marriage 
had by no means reconciled her to it. Her dis- 
trust of Hugo, born of the mystery which he 
had refused to elucidate, leapt all in a moment 
to a horror too monstrous to contemplate. She 
must escape. That was her one thought. She 
must escape. And in her extremity she turned 
to this man of whom she knew so little for help. 
He had been her mother's friend. And it seemed 
that he was fully prepared to be hers also. 

For at her words he stopped, looking at her 
with his shining, impenetrable eyes. He took 
her wrists into his slender, wiry hands, holding 
them .in a strangely vibrating grip. And in a 
moment or two he spoke, his voice vibrant also, 
and sunk almost to a whisper. " I will help you, 
signorina. Yes, I will help you — as in the d s 
that are gone I helped your mother. I was r 
friend and comrade. I will be yours. But ; a 
must give me the right to act. You must j e 
me the authority." 

" I will do anything — anything 1 " she saic 

" Bueno I Then I think I can help you. e 
will not talk of the future — not yet. That y 1 
come after. For the present you want — delr 
ance. And I will deliver you. I will take a 
away. You riirJl '.be my— secretary." 

He smited upor, her in ?, fashion that t 
again that curious electric thnA through hr 



She shrank a little instinctively* "But he 
will fetch me back again/' she said. 

" Oh, no, he will not. I will make that quite 
impossible." The dark eyes suddenly gleamed. 
" You need not be afraid of that,", he said. " I 
know how to make you safe. Leave it all to me, 
signorina > and I will not fail you. Only it is a 
secret between you and me. You will remember 
that it is a secret ( " He spoke insistently. 

" Yes — yes." Marjorie's voice quivered. " I 
am not likely to tell anyone/' she said. " They 
are all against me. Even — even Mrs. Lingarde 
thinks that — that I ought to go back to him. 
She told me so — only to-day," 

The Italian smiled in a secret subtle fashion, 
his eyes caressing her the while. . M Bueno I " 
he said, softly. " I am on your side. I will be 
your friend." 

They passed by the chancel-gates a little later, 
and the glory had departed. The place smote 
cold and chill. 

Marjorie shivered as she bade her companion 
good-bye. She felt as if all the light in the world 
had gone wholly out and she were left to wander 
quite alone in the darkness. She did not think 
that she would ever see the dawn-light again. 



When Hugo arrived at the Palace that'evening 
he found be was the only guest. He presented 
himself in good time with the vagrant hope that 
he might see something of Marjorie before his 
hostess - appeared. 

But his hope was not fulfilled. He was kept 
waiting for several minutes, and then it was the 
Bishop's wife who finally bustled in to relieve 
his solitude. She looked round as she came, as 
if she too had hoped to find Marjorie before her. 

Hugo shook hands, and immediately asked 
where she was. 

V She must be still upstairs/' Mrs. Lingarde 
told him. " Sit down, won't you ? I want to 
have a little talk. D6 you know I am beginning 
to be a wee bit anxious about her— igbout you 
both ? You won't think it presumption on my 
part ? M 

Hugo's faint 'smile showed about his lips as 
he made reply. " No, you are much too kind 
for that. I believe I know what you are going 
to say, and, as a matter of fact, I agree with 
you. She has had time now to recover her 
balance, and I am going to try and see more 
of her." 

" The worst of it is," said Mrs. Lingarde, 
' that the Bishop and I are going to the Italian 
akes in another three weeks, and, sorry as I 
hall be to part with her, I don't feel that she 
•uglit to go right away with us like that — unless 
you come too." ' 

" I see." Hugo's face remained perfectly 
calm. " In that case," he said, " she had better 
sine to me. Miss Lacey is leaving to join an 
td friend in the North, so I shall be alone." 

He spoke conclusively, but Mrs. Lingarde 
K>ked far from easy. She regarded him doubt- 
illy, and after a few seconds somewhat impetu- 

ly brought herself to speak. 

<f May I say something rather intimate ? " 

" Pray say anything you like/' Hugo 
rejoined, courteously. 

" Thank you. Well then, Hugo— forgive my 
impertinence— are you in love with your little 
wife ? " 

Silence followed the question — a silence so 
prolonged that Mrs. Lingarde began to be un- 
pleasantly embarrassed. She forced herself to 
wait, however, and at length, in his usual, 
unhurried fashion, Hugo spoke. " Will^you tell 
me why you have asked me that ? " 

She answered him with a measure of relief. 
" Just because I am anxious — very anxious — 
for her happiness. She is so young. I feel sure * 
that you could win her love if — if you wished 
to do so. Some men, I know, are afraid to show 
their hands too soon ; but I am sure you needn't 
be. She is very lonely and unhappy, and I am 
quite powerless to help her. She is intensely 
reserved with me also, and I don't feel that she 
is naturally so. I think — I really do think — that 
if you love her the time has come to let her know 
it. She seems to be pining for something, grieving 
secretly. May it not be for that very titling ? " 

'' I don't think so," Hugo said. He got up 
with the words, and moved to the window. 
Standing there, with his back to the room, he 
spoke again. " It would be difficult to explain 
to you the actual trouble without going very 
much into detail ; but the chief barrier between 
us is connected with her mother. My reason for 
taking her away from her was a very sufficient 
one, but I am under a promise never to tell her 
what -it was." 

" Oh, what a mistake ! " sighed Mrs. Lingarde. 

" Possibly. But it is a wholly irrevocable 
one." Hugo spoke without turning. 

" I see." Mrs. Lingarde looked thoughtful for 
a moment or two. " But that doesn't prevent 
you making love to her, does it ? " she said then. 

"It is a somewhat heavy handicap," said 
Hugo. * 

" But you have a chance," urged Mrs. Lingarde. 

He turned round, and came back to her. " A 
hopeless case, I'm afraid," he said ; " anyway 
for the present." 

" Aren't you going to try ? " she said, per- 

He smiled a little. " I am willing to try, but 
I doubt — I very much doubt — if I shall succeed." 

Mrs. Lingarde rose with briskness. " I am 
going to find dear Marjorie," she said, " and 
send her in to have a little chat before dinner." 

She turned away with the utmost decision, 
and he did not attempt to detain her. But when 
she was gone he began to pace the room with 
most unaccustomed restlessness. Possibly for 
the first time in his life he was faced with a 
problem with which he was utterly at a loss 
how to deal. 

Several minutes passed. He ceased to prowl, 
and stood again at the window, looking out upon 
the swallow-haunted cloisters. He wore the 
expression of a man who wrestles with his fate. 

Yet, when heihuixd the <ioor open behind him, 
he turneJ, vdth liis hub'tnaT serenity and moved 
across the room to greet his young wife. 



She stood on the threshold, looking at him, as 
if afraid to enter. Her face was very pale, and 
out of it her blue eyes shone with a brilliance 
almost startling. She did not attempt to speak 
or give him any kind of welcome. 

He came to her, and very gently took her 
hand. " Why, Marjorie." he said, "ami such 
a stranger that yon can't find anything to say 
to me ? " 

She made a sharp movement, as if to avoid 
his touch ; but in the end she suffered it. Her 
hand lay icy-cold in his. 

" Mrs. Lingarde told me yon wanted to see 
me," she said. 

Her voice was very low. She seemed to force 
herself to speak, and as she did so it came to 
him that the barrier between them had grown 
to a well-nigh impenetrable wall. 

He drew her forward, looking at her with his 
steady eyes, seeking for some means of sur- 
mounting it. " Why, my dear, what has hap- 
pened ? " he said. " Has Mrs. Lingarde been 
frightening you ? " 

Her eyes flickered and fell before his look. 
" No," she said. " No. She only told me — only 
told me — that Miss Lacey was going, and you 
wanted me to — to take her place. I can't do it. 
It's no good asking." 

" I never ask anyone to bestow a favour 
unwillingly," said Hugo, and his smile was 
momentarily grim. " You needn't regard me 
as an ogre, my child, until you know for certain 
that I am going to behave as such." 

He kept her hand in his and led her to the 
window. She did not attempt to resist him, but 
there was that about her that told of an almost 
panic-stricken desire to escape. 

He waited for a few seconds to give' her 
agitation time to subside; then: "Marjorie," 
he said, " will you look at me for a moment ? " 

She cast a swift look upwards, but instantly 
her quivering eyelids fell again. She stood in 
palpitating silence. 

" No, not like that," he said, gently. " I 
assure you there is nothing to frighten you. If 
you will only look me squarely in the face, you 
will see it for yourself." 

But she could not ; though he waited with 
unwavering patience. In the silence that fol- 
lowed he heard the wild throbbing of her heart. 

That moved him to a deeper compassion. 
He drew her nearer. " Marjorie, little girl, what 
is it ? What is it ? " he said. . " Tell me as a 
friend. I only want to help you. Don't be 
afraid of — of hurting me, you know ! I'm tough. 
I can stand it." 

That seemed to pierce her. She made a sharp 
gesture as of one in intolerable pain. Perhaps 
it was that unexpected falter of his that reached 
her heart. She turned from him with a piteous 
little sound, and covered her face. " Oh, don't 
— don't! " she whispered. 

He kept her hand still, but it was the only 
sign of mastery that he made. " Try not to be 
afraid of me ! " he said. " Try to realize that 
you've nothing whatever to fear ! I'm not going 
to ask anything of you that you don't want to 
give. I love you, Marjorie. Don't you under- 

stand ? And my idea of loving a person is to 
try to make that person happy." 

There was a faintly quizzical air about him as 
he said it, almost as if he smiled at his own 

"I'm not a selfish beast, dear," he went on. 
" Believe me, I'm not. It is true that Miss 
Lacey is going, and that I had thought it possible 
that you might be persuaded to take pity on my 
loneliness, and come and keep house for me. 
But, my child, I never meant, never intended, 
to force the post of housekeeper upon you as a 
duty. I want you, I admit; but not against 
your will." 

Marjorie was struggling with herself, but the 
hot tears were falling through. her shielding 
fingers, and she could not hide them from hint 
His tenderness hurt her as no harshness could 
have hurt. She longed to break away, but it 
seemed to surround her which ever way she 
turned. It was so hard to remember, when he 
spoke to her thus, that he could ever be grim, 
could ever be implacable. And yet — and yet— 
she had seen him hardened to severity. She 
knew — so fatally well— what he had done. Ab, 
if only she had not known ! How different life 
might have been 1 Very deep within her there 
stirred a longing such as she had never known 
before. It was almost more than she could bear* 
She felt torn in twain, cruelly mutilated. On 
the one hand the impulse to cast herself into his 
arms, to cling to him for comfort, urged her. 
On the other that new-born horror that would 
have her wrench herself from his hold and flee ! 

As to denouncing him, the bare thought never 
crossed her mind. How could she put into words 
the evil that had blighted her very existence ? 

He waited for her with a patience that lasted 
through many seconds, then very quietly he 
spoke again. 

" Is there no hope for me, Marjorie ? " he asked. 

With a great effort she commanded herself. 
" I can't — live with you at The Grey House," she 

" Or anywhere else ? " said Hugo. 

She was silent. 

" Or anywhere else ? " he persisted, gently. 

" No," she made answer. 

" And you won't tell me wjiy ? " he said. 

She summoned her strength. It had become 
horribly difficult to refuse him, so difficult that 
she felt every instant that her resistance would 
give way. 

" I will tell yon — the chief reason," she said, 
and paused. 

" Yes ? " said Hugo. 

She hesitated ; then,*with a tush, made am 
" I think you know it. Yon took me away ft 
my mother when she was dying, and I ; r 
knew — I never knew till too late." 

" By your mother's own wish," he said. 

Marjorie's hands clenched. She hau t 
wanted to touch upon the subject. Now t 
she had done so she regretted it. But at t 
the desire to yield to him was gone. She * 
herself away from tin? and turned. 

But ere sh« left him his voice arrested 
" Maxjorie 1 +TV UT MIL KlGA PT 



She paused. He was standing there in the 
evening light with his steady eyes upon her. 
She met those eyes for an instant, and felt again 
as if a sword had reached her heart. 

" Is that all you have against me ? " he asked. 
" Have you any other reason for wishing to be 
quit of me ? " 

She wrung her hands hard together. " It is 
a very big reason/' she said. 

" And you can never bring yourself to forgive 
me ? " he asked. 

She tried to speak, but her throat only worked 
soundlessly. She felt as if that rush of feeling 
would choke her. 

" Won't you try ? " Hugo urged, gently.' " I 
want you to love and to care for. Am I never 
to have the chance of making you happy ? " 

" You could never make me happy," die said, 
forcing herself to utterance that was actual 
physical pain. 

" Is that the truth ? " he said. 

She stood half-turned away. " Yes." 

He reached out a hand and lightly touched 
her shoulder. " You believe it yourself ? " he 

" Yes," she said, again, though how she said 
it she did not know. 

His hand fell. " All right, little Marjorie," he 
said. "Good-bye!" 

She heard him sigh with the word, but she 
led without a backward glance. She dared not 
stay, but the going took- all the strength she had. 
And within her her heart cried like a wounded 
thing. If only he had been less kind to her — 
less cruel to her mother I 



All through dinner Marjorie sat pale and quiet, 
scarcely raising her eyes to speak. 

All through dinner Hugo chatted in his calm, 
unruffled fashion, absolutely sure of himself, 
absolutely shielded from all prying eyes by that 
same serene assurance. 

The Bishop's wife, watching him, had not the 
faintest idea as to whether he had met with any 
success or not. There was neither triumph nor 
chagrin in his pose. That Marjorie was white 
and nervous told her little. She regarded it as 
natural. The poor child was always sad nowa- 
days ; but she hoped — how she hoped I — that 
Hugo had asserted himself. The situation was 
getting really serious in her opinion. She could 
not understand how he could have endured it 
for 90 long. 
Ihe counted upon throwing them together 
un when dinner was over ; but to her amaze- 
at Hugo deliberately frustrated this plan. 
asked her to show him the garden, and, 
ining that he had something to say to her, 
t could not well send Marjorie as a substitute. 
he granted the request, therefore, and they 
Bed forth together in the falling dusk, 
ing Marjorie to read the evening paper to 

at whatever his reason for desiring another 
irtite with his hostess, Hugo showed himself 
n hurry to unburden himself. He wandered 

by her side, smoking peacefully, admiring the 
gardens from every aspect, chatting still in his 
easy, imperturbable way, behaving as if his 
mind were occupied with subjects of the most 
casual description. 

She began to lose patience with him at the 
end of half an hour of this aimless conversation, 
but yet there was something about him that 
kept her from directly attacking the matter 
which she desired so earnestly to discuss. It 
occurred to her that he had brought her out 
with the deliberate intention of avoiding any 
further intercourse with Marjorie, and this idea 
determined her at once to return. It was absurd 
of him, it was wrong, to humour her to this 

It was nearly dark when she bluntly announced 
that they had wandered long enough. 

He accepted her decision at once. " Yes. I 
must be getting. home," he said. 

That seemed to offer a little opening. She 
asked him how soon Miss Lacey was to leave. 

" Oh, quite soon," he answered. " Next week, 
I believe." « 

" And you ? " she asked, pointedly. 

He met the question with a faint*smile. " I, 
Mrs. Lingarde, shall probably give up The Grey 
House and live in town." 

" Hugo ! " she said, in shocked surprise. 

He paused a moment, then with, absolute 
' simplicity he told her what she desired to know. 
" Marjorie has no wish to join forces with me. 
Please do not blame .her for that ! Possibly— 
when she is a little older — she may see things 
differently. At present I can anly beg you to 
let her remain in your care. If I ean — if I may 
— I will drop out oi her life for a little while. 
It seems advisable." 

He stopped, and in the silence .that followed . 
there came to Mrs. Lingarde the sudden, com- 
plete certainty of that which she had doubted 
only two brief hours before. 

" Hugo ! You love her ! " she said. 

He answered her very quietly. " Yes, I do. 
That is why I am going to take this step." 

" But, oh, is it a wise one ? " questioned Mrs. 
Lingarde in agitation. 

Jj2e raised his brows slightly. " Could I do 
anything else ? " 

" I don't know. Yes, I think you could. 
There are other men in the world, you know, 
Hugo. And she is very beautiful — too beautiful, 
poor child. What should I do — what should you 
do — if she fell in love with — well, that Italian 
sculptor, for instance ? " 

" My dear Mrs. lingarde," Hugo said, " you 
don't suppose, do you, that I am going to stay 
outside indefinitely ? Who is this Italian 
sculptor ? Is there any danger of her filling in 
love with him ? " 

11 No, no ! I don't know that they have even 
met, though he is constantly in the Cathedral, 
and she goes there too. No, there is no danger 
that I am aware of, except that she is so lovely 
that I feel half afraid to be responsible for her. 
I will gladly take care of her for you, but I think 
it is a mistake few you to drop out even for a 
short time. 1 do, indeed^ HIGAN 




She spoke with emphasis, bat she did not feel 
that she was making much impression. He was 
so exasperating ly patient. 

" If you would let her accompany you to the 
Italian lakes/' he said, " I think it; would do 
her a lot of good, and she might get happy again* 
I can deal with her if she is happy. But Marjorie 
in trouble beats me out of hand. At present she 
is half afraid of me. I want her to get out of 
that. I think she will when she is more normal 
— more herself, I should be immensely grateful 
if you would give her the chance/' 

" Oh, dearl" said the Bishop's wife, in the 
tone of one who recognizes argument to be futile, 
u Very well. Anything you wi^h I " 

*' You are more than land," Hugo said. 

They went back almost in silence to find the 
Bishop dozing in solitary content in the drawing- 
room. His wife awoke him ruthlessly to ask for 

He looked round with mild protest. " Dear 
me. How sudden you are, my dear I She went 
up to bed some little time ago ; she asked me 

to bid you good 

" I will go and 
fetch her down 
again," said Mrs. 
Lingarde, with 

Bmt Hugo put out 
a detaining hand. 
" No, don't ! Say 
good-bye to her for 
me I That will do 
quite as well," 

But at that un- 
expectedly and quite 
completely Mrs* 
Lingarde's patience 
vanished. ** I will 
not, Hugo] Sit 
down while I go and 
End her ! " 

She departed with 
the words, leaving 
him no choice but 
to obey. 

The Bishop 
exerted himself to 
make conversation, 
and Hugo very 
politely seconded his 
efforts. Yet the 
minutes that fol- 
lowed seemed inter- 
minably long. There 
was an element of 
strain in the atmo- 

Then, very sud- 
denly, even precipi- 
tately, Mrs. Lingarde 
reappeared. r Her 
usually ruddy face 
was white in patches. 
1 " Her eyes looked 

almost wild. 

she Baid to Hugo- "It is 

You were not firm enough. 

" She is gone 1 " 
just as I expected. 
And she has gone I " 

The Bishop started in his chair, " My dear, 
what can you mean ? " 

She had a piece of paper in her hand. She 
waved it at Hugo, *' Why did you do it ? Oh, 
why did you do it ? I knew you were making a 
mistake I " 

Hugo got up. " May I see it ? " he asked. 

She gave it to him, gasping hysteri— 1 *" 
watching him with tragic expectancy whil* 
carried it to a lamp and bent over it* 

The words he read were few and pathetic 
direct :— 

" Dear, dear Mrs, Lingarde, 

" You have been so good to me, I ha 
know how to write this ; but when 1 tell ; 
that Hugo married me undej false prettr 
perhaps you will understand. Don't be an 
anyway I Please don't \>o wigry I 

" I £w;t|^aM--iie» ftugo any longer, Ht 
not wMx'KfrBe&ns. - I cun't put into wonfc w 



he is. I can only tell you that he was the cause 
of my mother's death. And so I am going away, 
right away from England, and from all chance 
of ever seeing him again. 

" Thank you very, very much for all your 
goodness to me ! I shall never forget* it. 
" Always your 

" Marjorie. 

" P.S. — You need not be, anxious about me. 
I am going with my mother's best friend, who 
will take care of me as no one else — except you — 
ever could." 

Hugo looked up. " What is the meaning of 
that last, I wonder ? " he said, musingly. 

" Oh, how can you be so calm ? " cried Mrs. 
Lingarde. " It means that Italian sculptor man, 
I am sure of it. I never liked the man. He 
looked mysterious and furtive. And her mother 
had Italian friends, I believe." 

Hugo straightened himself. " If you will 
excuse me," he said, " I think I hac 1 better go." 

" Go ! Of course, you must go ! Go and find 
her, and bring her back ! She can't have got 
very far. She thought I should not find this 
before morning. She often goes up early to her 
room, and I seldom disturb her there," 

Mrs. Lingarde followed him to the door, in- 
coherent with consternation. 

Hugo turned back to her for a moment. His 
face was perfectly composed, but the grim lines 
that Marjorie knew and dreaded had banished 
that slightly quizzical look that generally hovered 
about his mouth. 

•* Don't be anxious ! " he said. " I shall find 

He was gone with the words, gone without 
apparent haste, but with a purpose there was 
no mistaking. 

The clang of the front door a moment later 
told of his departure, and Mrs. Lingarde sank 
trembling and powerless into a chair. She had 
never felt so overwhelmed in all her life before. 



The night-train to London left Compton Regis 
at half-past ten. Few passengers ever travelled 
by it, and it generally came in haste and left 
after a very brief pause in tile station. 

On that particular evening it was a few minutes 
behind time. There were only two figures on 
the dimly-lighted platform, and they kept near 
the darkest part. It was a night of clouds 
through which the stars shone dimly here and 

Scarcely a word passed between them as they 

.iited. They had met under the station-shelter, 

ut there had been only a brief, whispered greet- 

g between them, and then they had passed 

to the darkness beyond with one consent. 

To Marjorie, waiting there with that furtive 

#ure by her side, the whole world seemed 

ireal again, a place of many troubled dreams. 

e had urged this step upon her, and impulsively 

- had taken it ; but she had begun to feel 

± she had "acted almost involuntarily, in 

ordance with some master-plan outside her 

n brain. She did not feel as if she would 

ever act on her own initiative again. She did 
not think definitely of Hugo at all while she 
waited there. Somewhere at the back of her 
consciousness there was a numb aching as though 
she had been stunned by a heavy blow, but the 
moment for repentance had not come. She was 
still urged by that power outside herself. 

She awaited the coming of the London train 
as one who awaits the chariot-wheels of Fate, 
and the darkness all about her was typical of 
the darkness that filled her soul. She was going 
blindly forward under the compulsion of a 
stronger will than hers. No other course seemed 
possible. There came a distant throbbing on 
the quiet night-air. The man by her side gave 
a low mutter of relief. 

It was then that from the dim light of the 
station another figure detached itsolf, and came 
towards them. They did not notice its approach. 
Both were watching for the flare of the incoming 
train, at present invisible round a bend. And 
so, with a quiet, purposeful stride, the new-comer 
drew near and spoke. 

" Marjorie, what are you doing here ? '* 

Marjorie turned with a great start that nearly 
stopped the beating of her heart. 

" Hugo I " she gasped. 

He came up te her ; his face gleamed pale in 
the gloom. " I think you have made a mis- 
take," he said. "Mrs. T ; -orarrf<» is very anxious 
about you. Comal \s^ will £o b. V to her." 

His voice was perfectly level, bat it held a 
sternness that she had never heard before. She 
trembled as it reached her. 

Her companion swung round with a violent 
oath, but of him Hugo took not the smallest 

" Come, Marjorie I " he said again. " We will 
go back." 

Marjorie made a sharp movement that might 
have been of protest or surrender ; but the man 
at her side flung himself fiercely forward. • 

" This lady is in my company ! " he cried, 
furiously. " She has thrown herself upon my 
protection. You interfere with her at your 
peril ! " 

Cut again Hi:p;o ignored him, behaving 
exactly ac if ho v/cro not there. He touched 
Marjorie on the shoulder. "Come 1 " he said. 
" This has ^onc far enough." * 

His tone was imperative, and with those brief 
words there came to her for the first time a swift 
and full realization of that authority over her 
which he had till then forborne to assert. She 
turned in utter silence and began to walk back. 

He walked beside her with the calmness of 
undisputed possession. They left the Italian 
almost too infuriated for speech, and behind 
them the drumming of the approaching train 
filled the night, drowning all other sounds. 
Ever afterwards that rush of a coming train was 
to send a thrill of sheer stark horror through 
Marjorie's heart. 

It drew nearer. Instinctively she glanced 
round, saw the Italian's dark figure glide up like 
a serpent behind Hugo ; and then, ere she realized, 
there was a sudden shaip struggle in the darkness. 

She ;&<*ai<3: rc> sound of voices. The din of 



the rushing engine filled her ears. But for a 
few unutterable seconds there was a confusion 
of movement that turned her sick. Then the 
train thundered past her, and one man only was 
left upon the platform. 

That man turned round upon her with snake- 
like swiftness and caught her by the arm. The 
train ran on into the station, slowing to a stand- 

" Quick ! Quick I " cried, a voice in her ear. 
" You are free now ! Come ! " 

But Marjorie recoiled with hands outspread 
in horror. " Where is he ? Where is he ? " she 
gasped. " What have you done ?' " 

The man laughed, a terrible laugh of triumph. 
The malignancy of it lived in her brain for long 
after. " I have rid you of your enemy, carissima. 
The way is now open. Come ! " 

She stared at him, incredulous, uncomprehend- 
ing. " What have you done ? " she cried again. 

He shrugged his shoulders, with a gesture 
towards the now motionless train. " He fell, 
signorina. A distressing accident, doubtless. 
But we cannot help him now. We must think 
of ourselves instead." 

His hand was still upon her. He urged her 
towards the nearest carriage. But she shrank 
from him with a cry of anguish that seemed to 
rend her soul. " How could you ? How dared 
you ? Where is he ? My God ! Where is he ? " 

The guard had Just descended from his van. 
She sprang towards him, but the Italian held 
her forcibly back. " You can do nothing, I tell 
you— nothing I " he hissed between his teeth. 
" He is dead ! What of it ? The world is before 
us, and we will go." 

She fought with him wildly, a creature dis- 
traught, utterly past reason or control. " He 
is not I He is not ! Or if he is — if he is — then I 
will die too I Let me go — you brute I — you — 
you— murderer I " 

♦ He gripped her fiercely* His grasp was cruel. 

*" Do you want to see his — carrion ? " he flung 

at her, in his dreadful, sibilant whisper. " Do 

you choose that — rather than freedom with me ? " 

She struggled with him still, too agonized to 
care for aught save escape from his unclean touch. 
" I choose anything — anything — prison — death — 
rather than to go with you ! " she cried back. 
" How dare you hold me ? Ah I " Her words 
went into a gasp. 

She was free, for he flung her from him with 
a snarling oath that seemed to come from the 
throat of an animal. Free, but tottering, reeling, 
powerless ! The darkness swam around her, ail 
pricked with swirling points of amazing bright- 
ness.^ The whole world seemed suddenly to 
have fallen away from her, leaving her drifting 
helpless in a storm-blast that threatened to 
annihilate her. 

For the passage of many seconds she lived in 
an anguish of horror that almost bereft her of 
her senses. Then there came from afar the 
sound of the train moving on. She heard the 
banging of doors, the cheery call of voices, and 
it came to her ^ith a feeling of desolation in- 
describable that it was all over, all over. And 
rio one knew 1 No one but herself — and she as 

' good as dead ! The wheels of Fate had caught 
and crushed her life with Hugo's. She was gone 
— they both were gone from the ken of human 
existence ; and they would wander apart for 
ever in worlds unknown. Their lives, which 
might have been welded into one, would never 
touch again in all the aeons that were to come. 
They were cut asunder for ever. And with that 
there came upon her such a passion of regret as 
seemed to tear at the very core of her being. 
Very curiously, it was only then, when all was 
over, that she realized — how poignantly and how 
despairingly ! — that her love for him was the 
greatest thing that she had ever known. And 
she had denied it — denied it ; had told him that 
he could never make her happy. Oh, irony of 
Fate 1 Oh, bitterness of loss ! Oh, nameless 
magic, ever potent, yet speaking ever "in a 
tongue no man could understand " I 



The racing storm-blast left her. She came to 
herself, standing, as it were, stark and lonely on 
the edge oi a world that had gone out. There 
was no light anywhere, only a wind that moaned 
to and fro like a wandering spirit moving over 
desolation, making the loneliness more lonely, _ 
whispering despair. 

It drew near to her, that spirit. It entered 
into her. She felt it cold about her heart. 
Involuntarily she stirred and moaned. 

And then, out of the pressing darkness, there 
came a voice — the voice of another spirit calling 
to hers, gently, whimsically, almost it seemed 

" Marjorie, are you still there ? " 

Her heart moved within her, quickening to 
that voice. Something — it was no volition of 
her own — impelled her forward. 

She found the solid earth beneath her feet, the 
night- wind in her ears. " Hugo ! " she said, 
and waited with her face to the sky, waited for 
that spirit-voice to call to her again. 

It came, from somewhere beneath her feet, 
slightly tremulous, yet strangely reassuring. " I'm 
not dead," it said. " Did you think I was ? " 

A great quiver went through her. She felt as 
one who stands on the threshold of the unknown, 
almost within sight of a great revelation. 

" I know you couldn't die," she said* " But, 
oh, where are you ? Where ? Where ? Shall 
I never see you again ? Hugo ! Hugo ! " 

There was anguish in her voice ; there was 
heart-break in the silence that followed. The 
night-wind began to moan again, and she thought 
he had drifted out of her ken. She stood on the 
edge o£the platform, peering downwards, dreading 
unspeakably the thing she could not see. 

And then, sudden and amazing, the truth 
burst upon her. A hand came upwards out of 
the blackness, touched her, felt her. 
- " I'm not dead," he said, again ; " not — I fancy v 
-—even badly damaged. You needn't be — upset J' N 

She bent and caught the groping hand, held 
it fast in both her own. " Oh, Hugo ! " she 
said, and buvst into ait anguish of tears. 

His finders fighfconM uTon hers. She knew 




that he pulled himself up on to the platform. He 
was panting a little, but his hold upon her was firm. 

" You needn't cry — on my account," he said, 
speaking jerkily* " But pYaps — p'r'aps you're 
not ! What has become of that blackguard ? 
Did he catch his train ? " 

She did not attempt to answer him ; speech 
was impossible. Only swiftly and passionately 
she caught his hand up to her face and kissed 
it over and over through her tears. 

" Ah, don't I " he said, gently. " Don't ! " 

She pressed it to her bosom ; she lifted her 
face to him all blinded with weeping. She tried 
to speak; but still she could not. Only her 
action was eloquent, and he understood it. He 
pat his arm about her. 

" Maijorie— Marjorie I " he said. 

She clung to him, sobbing terribly, • utterly 
unstrung. The agony through which -she had 
passed — the sudden amazing revelation — the 
overwhelming reaction— had broken her down 
completely* In those moments she was stripped 
of all reserve, she showed him her quivering soul. 

He held her for awhile in silence, and presently 
he slipped his hand free, and put his other arm 
about her also, holding her closer. 

" There 1 You are better ? " he said, at last. 

She leaned her head against his shoulder 
while the paroxysm spent itself and slowly passed. 
" Oh. Hugo ! " she whispered, finally. " If 
you had been killed I You're sure you're not 
hurt ? You're sure ? " 

" Quite sure, dear," he made answer, his voice 
very gentle, yet faintly quizzical also. " I had 
the sense to lie still. If you had gone with the 
brute, I should have come on by 'the next train 
— as once before." 

She uttered a great quivering sob. " Oh, how 
can you laugh ? And how could you imagine 
that I would go with him after — after " 

He stopped her, as she faltered. " I didn't 
think so. I counted on his going alone. Now 
that he has gone — all's well." 

She hid her face against him. " How can 
you say that when I have been so wicked — so 
wicked ? How is it you are not angry with 
me ? You must — must hate me ! " 

He bent over her ; his hold was full of Sus- 
taining comfort. " How could I do that ? 
You made a mistake; but don't we all make 
them ? Moreover, I was partly responsible." 

" Oh, such a dreadful — dreadful mistake ! " 
she sobbed. " I don't know how it happened 
— even now. I thought he was a good man. 
I thought he was to be trusted. My mother 
trusted him." 4 

I ugo was silent for a moment ; then : " Your 

ther made a mistake, too, Marjorie," he 


* Ah I " She spoke swiftly, raising her head, 

one who reads a startling message by the 

Jhlight of a new understanding. " The same 

rt of mistake ? " she questioned, breathlessly. 

Was it ? Was it ? " 

" And she wanted you never to know," Hugo 
1, gravely. 

Ah ! " she said again, and was silent. 
^veral seconds passed, during which her 

arms strained closely and ever more closely 
about him, as if she could not bear to let him 
go. At last : " Hugo," she whispered, " was 
that — was that — why you married me ? " 

" One of the reasons," he said. 

" Not the only one ? " Her voice held a 
touch of pleading ; her face was raised to his. 

" Jfot the only one — no," he said. 

" Ah f Tell me— the others I " she begged 
him, tremulously. "I — I want— to, understand." 

She felt his arms tighten about her, and sud- 
denly she was close — close to the beating of his 
heart. " You won't be afraid — if I tell you ? " 
he questioned, whimsically. 
- " Of course not — of course not ! " She was 
clinging to him with quivering lips upturned. 
" Hugo — oh, Hugo ! " — a note of rapture sounded 
in her voice — " I love you — too much — ever to 
be afraid — again." 

His lips found hers ; she spoke gaspingly, 
between his kisses. 

And the silence that followed her words held 
jftore than speech ; for in that silence a man's 
heart opened to her, and, her soul afire with love's 
ecstasy, she entered in. . 

It was nearly an hour later that Marjorie 
returned alone to the Palace. 

Her face was flushed, her eyes shining. So 
vivid was her beauty that it seemed to the 
Bishop's wife as if an unearthly glory were all 
about her, making her radiant. 

She met her with outstretched hands. " My 
dear ! My dear 1 " she said. 

Maijorie went straight into her arms. " How 
kind of you not to be angry ! I've just come 
from Hugo to tell you that it's all right — all 
right. He is waiting for me to— to take me to 
The Grey House. But he wouldn't come in. 
He said you would understand." 

Mrs. Lingarde drew back a little to look into 
the shining eyes. " Marjorie — my dear, what 
has happened to you ? " she said. " You look 
— you look as if the sun has risen upon you." 

Marjorie's hands clung to hers. " Dear Mrs. 
Lingarde, it has — it has ! I can't tell you all 
to-night. But it has all come right — eh, quite, 
quite right. And — and — if you can spare me — I 
am going to — to my husband now." 

" If I dan spare you ! " echoed Mrs. Lirij;arde, 
fondly. " But, of course, I can spare you, 
dear child. Go to him 1 Go to him and be happy! 
May the sun always shine on you both ! " 

" Ah ! " Marjorie said, and for a moment 
something of the old shadow hovered in her 
clear eyes. " It will ! I believe it will ! But 
it was— af very terrible sunrise, dear Mrs. Lin- 
garde. I can't tell you how terrible." 

The Bishop's wife kissed her very tenderly. 
" * God made Himself an awful rose of dawn/ " 
she quoted, softly. " I think it is often so, my 
Marjorie, after the night has been very long and 
dark. The light comes so suddenly that it 
pierces us to the soul. But — we can never be 
blind again." 

" Never — no, never ! " said Marjorie. 

And with that solium and wonderful dawn-light 
still in h»sr eyes, !fhe turned an:! w<»tit her way. 


| Wt shall be jiad t& receipt Contributions to this section* and U> pay for $utk us art otfvpferf.] 


THIS bicycle, which is in use on one of the islands 
in the Grecian Archipelago, gives a capital idea 
of the extraordinary adaptjveness oE our naval boys. 
Having discovered an old frame, they quickly thought 
of making it usable, and have put in two wooden 
wheels. Although the amount of comfort to be 
obtained in riding is undoubtedly the minimum, still 
they feel that this is better than none, and those uf us 
w**o*have seen it ate the first to agree with them. — 
Mr, Jliirold Wm, Wood, Ky nance, Somerset Road, 


THE following cricket and mathematical curiosity 
may puzzle many Strand readers. 
Jones and Smith were the bowlers in a certain cricket 
mftich, and their performances are set out below : — 
First Innings- 




Second Innings — 





Runs per 



Tones . . M - * 3 
Smith * . 1 ■ ■ 1 

It will be noticed that in each innings 
Smith earned the better bowling average of 
the two : that is to say, his wickets cost 
him fewer runs apiece, 

H u t — and here comes in the curious 
point— add the performances in the two 
innings, and the following is obtained :— 

The two Innings combined :— 

Run* !»<■ 
Runs, Wickelt Wicket., 

Jones .* 56 . ■ 7 - * 8o 

Smith -- 61 .- 7 -- 8 '5 

Jones has the belter average of the two 

when the innings are combined, although 

he has the worse in each individual 


Jones persists In saying that the figures 
prove him the better bowler; but others 
n&k how can he be when he was cle^rlv not 
-so good as Smith in each of the two inning, 
— ftr. William H. Pick, 141, Mare Street, 
Hackney, London, N.E. 

Runs per 


l£ftr- ll 


IK the following puzzle every line except the h»s! 
contains a clue to the solution, which will te 
given next month : — 

A cedar tree is shady 111 agree, 

Vet would not dare to rank itself with me. 

Both reeking den and mansion fair I haunt. 

If our land seeks to meet the pride-born taunt. 

If Tve to fight t my clubbed sticks arc at hand. 

Six days a week the Christian I command- 

Tis even so, and yet I dream oi love ; 

Freight of all hearts, that lifts the soul above. 

Spurn inequality indeed I will, 

But entering rich, Hi go out richer still* 

With Jack I plough the sens* in Tommy's wilVc 

Unique entrenchments with the spade 1 make* 

Kings do me honour, yet I grace the poor ; 

This much I say, I shall not tell you more, 

Mr. Hugh L. Tapply, 54, Queen's Purk Terrace* 


BY fixing electric lights to various parts of tin; 
body, and to whatever appliances are in use 
at the time, Mr* Frank B* Gijhreth, o£ Providence, 
Rhode Island, U.S.A-, has been able to obtain somt 
most interesting and valuable photographs of various 
forms of motion. The accompanying picture illustrates 
his method. 

The subject chosen, is a well-known golfer, and the 
stroke he is playing is a full drive. Lights were fiwd 
" to the club head, the rigid hand of the player* [us 
forehead, and left shoulder. 

It will be noted that the downward stroke differs 
from that taken upwards. The motion of the left 
shoulder can be traced, also that of the right hantL 
The light flashed twenty times a second , and it <■- 
magnifying glass be used it will be seen that it took 
about twelve flashes on the upswing, and only six on 
the downward blow. 

This system, in this instance used to study the 
methods of sportsmen* is more generally employed lor 
industrial problems* — Mr. James F, Butter worth, 24. 
I .in den Gardens, London,. W.2, 


_-- ^.i...*>iBi ihiitiiu[iife : - 




rhe "TANKS.'»#rst authoritative 

By Pot B. P. SWINTOglpV*^^^ ACCOUNT. 






—Dr. Amdrtm Wllivt, 
KJL4.E., Ac 

See Pace 22. 





Ton can 



* *rs 


The girl who wears Wood-Mi Ines is 
the girl who values her appearance 
and who won't be u down*at*hed/' 
She has a light and springy tread, 
always feels bright, avoiding the 
headaches caused by joks and jars 
of the pavement, and she patriotic- 
ally saves her money in war-time 

Why don't you 
buy a pair of Wood- 
Milne Heels and Tips to-day ? 


Ask your Boot man to fix them— ht 

stocks all sizes, shapes, and qualities, iitl&Ki 

Brown, and Crey Rubber, and hl J Wfi^jtf^fyW£Wfi*J^ 


Pf\noli i Original from 




(See page 2\ 4 .) 



Vol. 54. 


No. 321. 

His Last Bow. 







Illustrated by A. Gilbert. 

T was nine o'clock at night 
upon the second of August 
— the most terrible August in 
the history of the world. One 
might have thought already 
that God's curse hung heavy 
oyer a degenerate earth, for 
there was an awesome hush and a feeling of 
vague expectancy in the sultry and stagnant 
air. The sun had long set, but one blood-red 
gash, like an open wound, lay low in the 
distant west. Above the stars were sHhiing 
brightly, and below the lights of the shipping 
glimmered in the bay. The two famous 
r -ermans stood beside the stone parapet of 
2 garden walk, with the long, low, heavily- 
bled house behind them, and they looked 
wn upon the broad sweep of the beach at 
s foot of the great chalk cliff on which Von 
>rk, like some wandering eagle, h^d perched 
nself four years before. They stQod 
h their heads (jjose together talking in 
s, confidential tones. From below the 
1 glowing ends of their cigars might have 

**oL liv.— 15. Copyright, 1917, 

been the smouldering eyes of some malig- 
nant fiend looking down in the darkness. 

A remarkable man this Von Bork — a 
man who could hardly be matched among 
all the devoted agents of ,*the Kaiser. It 
was his talents which had first recommended 
him for the English mission, the most impor- 
tant mission of all, but since he had taken 
it over those talents had become more and 
more manifest to the half-dozen people in 
the world who were really in touch with the 
truth. One of these was his present com- 
panion, Baron Von Herling, the Chief Secre- 
tary of the Legation, whose huge hundred- 
horse-power Benz car was blocking the 
country lane as it waited to carry its bwner 
back to London. 

" Things are moving very fast now and 
quite in accordance with the time-table. 
So far as I can judge the trend of events, 
you will probably be back in Berlin within 
the week," the secretary was saying. " When 
you get there, my dear Von Boik, I think 
you will be surprised at the warm welcome 

byA - Con tJ>jWftSITy OF MICHIGAN 




you will receive. I happen to know what 
-is thought in the All-Highest quarters of 
your work in this country." He was a huge 
man, the secretary, deep, broad, and tall, 
with a slow, heavy fashion of speech which 
had been his main asset in his political career. 

Von Bork laughed in a deprecating way. 

" They are not very hard to deceive, 
these Englanders," he remarked. " A more 
docile, simple folk could not be imagined." . 

" I don't know about that," said the other, 
thoughtfully. u They have strange, unex- 
pected limits, and one must learn to allow 
for them. -It is that surface simplicity of 
theirs which makes a trap for the stranger. 
One's first impression is that they are entirely 
soft! Then you come suddenly upon some- 
thing very hard, and you know that you have 
reached the limit and must adapt yourself 
to the fact. They have, for example, their 
insular conventions, which simply must be 

" Meaning ' good form ' and ' playing the 
game' and that sort of thing ? " Von Bork 
sighed as one who had suffered much. 

" Moaning British prejudice and conven- 
tion, in all its queer manifestations. As an 
example I may quote one of my own worst 
blunders — I can afford to talk of my blunders, 
for you know my work well enough to be 
aware of my successes. It was on my first 
arrival. I was invited to a week-end gather- 
ing at the country-house of a Cabinet Minister. 
The conversation was amazingly indiscreet." 

Von* Bork nodded. " I've been there," 
said he, dryly. 

" Exactly. Well, I naturally sent a risumi 
of the information to Berlin. Unfortunately, 
our good Chancellor is a little heavy-handed 
in these matters, and he transmitted a remark 
which showed that he was aware of what 
had been said. This, of course, took the 
trail straight up to me. You've no idea 
the harm that it did me. There was nothing 
soft about our British hosts on that occasion, 
I can assure you. I was two years living 
it down. Now you, with this sporting 
pose of yours " 

" No, no ; don't call it a pose. A pose is 
an artificial thing. This is quite natural. 
I am a born sportsman. I enjoy it." 

" Well, that makes it the more effective. 
You yacht against them, you hunt with them, 
you play polo, you match them in every 
game. Your four-in-hand takes the prize 
at Olympia — I have even heard that you go 
the length of boxing with the young officers. 
What is the result ? Nobody takes you 
seriously. You are * a good old sport/ 

' quite a decent fellow for a German,' a hard- 
drinking, night-club, knock-about-town, devil- 
may-care young fellow. And all the time 
this quiet country-house of yours is the 
centre of half the mischief in England, and 
the sporting squire — the most astute secret- 
service man in Europe. Genius, my dear 
Von Bork — genius ! " 

" You flatter me, Baron. But certainly 
I may claim that my four years in this country 
have not been unproductive. I've never 
shown you my little store. Would you mind 
stepping in for a moment ? " 

The door of the study opened straight on 
to the terrace. Von Bork pushed it back, 
and, leading the way, he clicked the switch 
of the electric light. He then closed the door 
behind the bulky form which followed him, 
and carefully adjusted the heavy curtain 
over the latticed window. Only when all 
these precautions had been taken and tested 
did he turn his sunburned, aquiline face to 
his guest. 

14 Some of my papers have gone," said he. 
" When my wife and the household left 
yesterday for Flushing they took the less 
important with them. .1 must, of course, 
claim the protection of the Embassy for the 

" Everything has been most carefully 
arranged. Your name has " already been 
filed as one of the personal suite. Then* 
will be no difficulties for you or your baggage. 
Of course, it is just possible that we may 
not have to go. England may leave France 
to her fate. We are sure that there is no 
binding treaty between them." 

" And Belgium ? " He stood listen "ng 
intently for the answer. 

" Yes, and Belgium too." 

Von Bork shook his head; " I don't se* 
how that could be/ There is a definite treaty 
there. It would be the end of her — and what 
an end ! She could never recover from 
such a humiliation." 

" She would at least have peace for the 

" But her honour ? " 

" Tut, my dear sir, we live in a utilitarian 
age. Honour is a mediaeval concept. 
Besides, Endand is not readv. It is *n 
inconceivable thing, * but even our sp & 
war-tax of fifty millions, which one ^ Id 
think made our purpose as clear as if we id 
advertised it on the front page of the T 
has not roused these people from their s 
bers. Here and there <Jhe hears a que* 
It is my business to find an answer.- I 
and there a':»o there is irritation. It * c 





business to soothe it. But I can assure you 
that so far as the essentials go — the storage 
of munitions, the preparation for submarine, 
attack,' the arrangements for making high 
explosives — nothing is prepared. How then 
can England come in, especially when we have 
stirred her up such a devil's brew of Irish 
civil war, window-breaking furies, and God 
knows what to keep her thoughts at home ? " 
" She must think of her future." 
"Ah, that is another matter. I fancy 
that in the future we have our own very 
definite plans about England, and that your 
information will be very vital to us. It 
is to-day or to-morrow with Mr. John Bull. 
If he prefers to-day we are perfectly ready, 
and the readier, my dear Von Bork, for your 
labours. If it is to-morrow, I need not tell 
you that we shall be more ready still. I 
should think they would be wiser to fight 
with allies than without them, but that is 
their own affair. This week is their week 
of destiny. But let us get away from specu- 
lation and back to real-politik. You were 
speaking of your papers." 

He sat in the armchair with the light shining 
upon his broad, bald head, while he puffed 
sedately at his cigar and watched the move- 
ments of his companion. ' 

The large oak-panelled, book-lined room 
had a curtain hung in the farther corner. 
When this was drawn it disctosed -a large 
brass-bound safe. Von Bork detached a 
small key from his watch-chain, and after 
sdme considerable manipulation of the lock 
he swung open the heavy doorr . 

"' Look ! " said he, standing clear, with 
a wave of his hand. 

The light shone vividly into the opened safe, 
and the secretary of the Embassy gazed with 
an absorbed interest at the rows of stuffed 
ptgeon-holes with which it was furnished. 
Each pigeon-tole had its label, and his eyes, 
as he glanced along them, read a long series of 
such titles as " Fords," " Harbour-Defences," 
"Aeroplanes," " Ireland," " Egypt," " Ports- 
mouth Forts," " The Channel," " Rosyth," 
and a score of others. Each compartment 
was bristling with papers and plans.. 

" Colossal ! " said the "secretary, Putting 
d m his cigar he softly clapped his fat hands. 
And all in four years, Baron. Not such 
a iad show for the hard-drinking, hard- 
r ig country squire. But the gem of my 
c lection is coming, and there is the setting 
a ready for it." He pointed to a space 
• which " Naval Signals " was printed. 

tot you have a good dossier there 
a dy?" , 

Digitized by Google 

" Out of date and waste paper. The 
Admiralty in some way got the alarm and 
every code has been changed. r It was a 
blow, Baron — the worst set-back in my whole 
campaign. But, thanks to my cheque-book 
and the good Altamont, all will be well to- 

The Baron looked at his watch, and gave 
a guttural exclamation of disappointment. 

" Well, I really can wait no longer. You 
can imagine that things are moving at present 
*in Carlton House Terrace and that we have 
all to be at our posts. > I had hoped to be 
able to bring news of your great coup. Did 
Altamont name no hour ? " 

Von Bork pushed over a telegram. 

" Will come without fail to-night and 
bring new sparking-plugs. — Altamont." 

" Sparking-plugs, eh ? " 

" You see, he poses as a motor expert, 
and I keep a full garage. In our code every- 
thing likely to come up is named after some 
spare part. If he talks of a iadiator it is* 
a battleship, of an oil-pump a cruiser, and 
so on. Sparking-plugs are naval signals." 

" From Portsmouth at midday," said the 
secretary, examining the superscription. " By 
the way, what do you give him ? " 
. " Five hundred pounds for this particular 
job. Of course, he has a salary as well." 

" The greedy rogue. They are useful; 
these traitors, but I grudge them their blood- 

" I grudge Altamont nothing. He is a 
wonderful worker. If I pay him well, at 
least he delivers the goods, to use his own 
phrase. Besides, he is not a traitor. I 
assure you that our most Pan-Germanic 
Junker is a peaceful sucking-dove in his 
feelings towards England as compared with 
a real bitter Irish-American." 

" Oh, an Irish-American ? " 

" If you heard him talk you would not 
doubt it. Sometimes I assure you I can 
hardly understand him. 'He seems to have 
declared war on the King's English as well 
as on the English King. Must you really 
go ? He may be here any moment." 

" No ; I'm sorry, but I have already over- 
stayed my time. We shall expect you early 
to-morrow, and when you get that signal- 
'book through the little door on the Duke of 
York's steps you can put a triumphant Finis 
to your record in England. What ! Tokay ! " 
He indicated a heavily-sealed, dust-coverod 
bottle which stood with two high glasses 
upon a salver. 

" May I offer you a glass before your 
journey ? » 





11 No/ thanks. But it looks like revelry." 

" Altamctnt has a nice taste in wines, and 
he took a fancy to my Tokay. He is a touchy 
fellow and needs humouring in small things. 
He is absolutely vital to my plans, and I 
have to study him, I assure you." They 
had strolled out on to the terrace again, and 
along it to the farther end, where, at a touch 
from the Baron's chauffeur, the great car 
shivered and chuckled. " Those are the 
lights of Harwich, I suppose/' said the 
secretary, pulling on his dust-coat. " How 
still and peaceful it all seems ! There may 
be other lights within the week, and the 
English coast a less tranquil place ! The 
heavens, too, may not be quite so peaceful, 
if all that the good Zeppelin promises us 
comes true. By the way, who is that ? " 

Only one window showed a light behind 
them. In it there stood a lamp, and beside 
it, seated at a table, was a dear old ruddy- 
faced woman in a country cap. She was 
bending over her knitting and stopping 
occasionally to stroke a large black cat upon, 
a stool beside her. 

li That is Martha, the only servant I have 

The secretary chuckled. 

" She might almost personify Britannia," 
said he, " with her complete self-absorption 
and general air of comfortable somnolence. 
Well, an revotr, Von Bork ! " With a final 
wave of his hand he sprang into the car, 
and a moment later the two golden cones 
from the headlights shot forward through 
the darkness. The secretary lay back in 
the cushions of the luxurious Limousine 
with his thoughts full of the impending 
European tragedy, and hardly observing 
that as his car swung round the village street 
it nearly passed over a little Ford coming 
in the opposite direction. 

Von Bork walked slowly back to the study 
when the last gleams of the motor lamps 
had faded into the distance. As he passed 
he observed that his old housekeeper had 
put out her lamp and retired. It was a 
new experience to him, the silence- and 
darkness of his widespread house, for his 
family and household had been a large one. 
It was a relief to him, however, to think 
that they were all in safety, and that, but 
for that one old woman who lingered in the 
kitchen, he had the whole place to himself. 
There was a good deal of tidying up to do 
inside his study, and he set himself to do it 
until his keen, handsome face was flushed 
with the heat of the burn'ng papers. A 
leather valise stood beside his table, and 

into this he began to pack very neatly and 
systematically the precious contents of his 
safe. He had hardly got started with the 
work, however, when his quick ears caught 
the sound of a distant car. Instantly he 
gave an exclamation of satisfaction, strapped 
up the valise, shut the safe, locked it, and 
hurried out § on to the terrace. He was just 
in time to see the lights of a small car corae 
to a halt at the gate. A passenger sprang 
out of it and advanced swiftly towards him, 
while the chauffeur, a heavily-built, elderly 
man with a grey moustache, settled down 
like one who resigns himself to a long vigil. 

" Well ? " asked Von Bork, eagerly, run- 
ning forward to meet his visitor. 

For answer the man waved a small brown- 
paper parcel triumphantly above his head. 

" You can give me the glad hand to-night, 
mister," he cried. * " I'm bringin' home the 
bacon at last." 

" The signals ? » ^ 

" Same as I said in my cable. Every last 
one of them — semaphore, lamp-code, Marconi 
—a copy, mind you, not the original. The 
sucker that sold it would have handed over 
the book itself. That was too dangerous. 
But it's the r$al goods, and you can lay to 
that." He slapped the German upon the 
shoulder with a rough familiarity from which 
the other winced. 

" Come in," he said. " I'm all alone in 
the house. I was only waiting foi this. 
Of course, a copy is better than the original. 
If ail original were missing they would change 
the whole thing. You think it's all safe 
about this copy ? " 

The Irish-American had entered the study 
and stretched his long limbs from the arm- 
chair. He was a tall, gaunt man of sixty, 
with clear-cut features and a small goatee 
beard, which gave him a general resemblance 
to the caricatures of Uncle Sam. A half- 
smoked sodden cigar hung from the corner 
of his mouth, and as he sat down he struck 
a match and relit it. " Makin' ready for 
a move ? " he remarked, as he looked round 
him. " Say, mister," he added, as his eyes 
fell upon the safe from which the curtain 
was now removed, " you don't tell ™ A *'ou 
keep your papers in that? " 

"Why not?" 

" Gosh, in a wide-open contraption & 
that ! And they reckon you to be s ae 
spy. Why, a Yankee crook would be to 
that with a can-opener. If I'd known at 
any letter of mine was goin* to lie loos in 
a thing like that I'd have been a mu*" to 
write to you nt all," 




" It would . puzzle any of your crooks to 
force that safe," Von Bork answered. " You 
won't cut that metal with any tool." 
" But the lock ? " 

"No; it's a double Combination lock. 
You know what that is ? " 

4i Search me/' said the American, with a 

" Well, you need a word as well as a v set 
of figures before you can get the lock to 
work." He rose and showed a double 
radiating disc round the keyhole. " This 
outer one is for the letters, the inner one 
for the figures." 
"•Well, well, that's fine." 
" So it's not quite so simple as you thought. 
It was four years ago that I had it made, 
and what do you think I chose for the word 
and figures ? " 
" It's beyond me." 

" Well, I chose ' August ' for the word, 
and '1914' for the figures, and here we are." 

The American's face' showed his surprise 
and admiration. 

" My, but that was smart ! You had it 
down to a fine thing." 

u Yes ; a few of us even then could have 
guessed the date. Here it is, and I'm shut- 
ting down to-morrow morning." 

" Well, I guess you'll have to fix me up 
too. I'm not stayin' in this goldarned 
country all on my lonesome. In a week 
or less, from what I see, John Bull will be 
on his hind legs and fair rampin'. I'd rather 
watch him from over the water." 
" But you're an American citizen ? " 
" Well, so was Jack James an American 
citizen, but he's doin' time in Portland all 
the same. It cuts no ice with a British 
copper to tell him you're an Americaij citizen. 
1 It's British law and order over here,' says 
he. By the way, mister, talking of Jack 
James, it seems to me you don 1 * do much 
to cover your men." 

" What do you mean ? " Von Bork asked, 

" Well, you are their employer, ain't you ? 
It's up to you to see that they don't fall 
down. But they do fall down, and when 
c i: J you ever pick them up ? There's 


It was James's own fault. You kpow 
t t yourself. He was too self-willed for 
1 >job." 

James was a bonehead — I give you that. 
' jn there was Hollis." 
1 The man was mad." 
Well, he went a bit woozy towards the 
i I. It's enough to make a man bughouse 

Digitized by GOOg fe 

when he has to play a part from mornin' 
to night, with a hundred guys all ready to 
set the coppers wise to him. But now there 
is Steiner " 

Von Bork started violently, and his ruddy 
face turned a shade paler. 

" What about Steiner ? " 

" Well, they've pulled him, that's alfi 
They raided his store last night, and he and 
his papers are all in Portsmouth Jail. You'll 
go off and he, poor devil, will have to stand 
the racket, and lucky if he gets clear with 
his life. That's why I want to get over 
the salt water as soon as you do." 

Von Bork , was a * strong, self-contained 
man, but it was easy to see that the news 
had shaken him. 

" How could they have got on to Steiner ? " 
he muttered. " That's the worst blow yet." 

" Well, you nearly had a darned sight 
worse one, for I believe they are not far off 

" You don't mean that ! " 

" Sure thing. My landlady down Fratton 
way had some # inquiries, and when I heard 
of it I guessed it was time for me to hustle. 
But what I want to know, mister, is how the 
coppers know these things ? Steiner is the 
fifth man you've -lost since I signed on for 
you, and I know the name of the sixth if 
I don't get a move on. How do you explain 
it, and ain't you ashamed to see your men 
go down like this ? " 
• Von Bork flushed crimson. 

" How dare you speak in such a way ? " 

"If I didn't dare things, mister, I wouldn't 
be in your service. But I'll tell you straight 
what is in my mind. I've heard that with 
you German politicians when an agent has 
done his work you are not very sorry to see 
him put away where he can't talk too much." 

Von Bork sprang to his feet. 

" Do you dare to suggest that I have 
given away my own agents ? " 

" I don't stand for that, mister, " but 
there's a stool pigeon or a cross somewhere, 
and it's up to you to find out where it is. 
Anyhow, I am taking no more chances. It's 
me for little Holland, and the sooner the 

Von Bork had mastered his anger. 

" We have been allies too long to quarrel 
now at the very hour of victory," said he. 
" You've done splendid work and taken big 
risks, and I can't forget it. By all means 
go to Holland, and you can come with us 
to Borlin or get a boat from Rotterdam to 
New York. No other line will be safe a 
week from now r ,j^l^i)f| Von Tirpitz gets to 





by Google 

Original from 


2 33 

work. But let us settle up, Altamont. 
I'D take that book and pack it with the 

Th* American held tire small parcel in 
his hand, but made no motion to give it up. 

" What about the dough ? " he asked. 

u The what ? " 

" The boodle. The reward. The five hun- 
dred pounds. The gunner turned durned 
nasty at the last, and I had to square him 
with an extra hundred dollars or it would 
have been nitsky for you and me. * Nothin' 
doin' ! ' says he, and he meant it too, but the 
last hundred did it. It's cost me two hundred 
pounds irom first to last, so it isn't likely 
I'd give it up without gettin* my wad." 

Von Bork smiled with some bitterness. 
" You don't seem to have a very high opinion 
of my honour," said he ; " you want the 
money before you give up the book." 

M Well, mister, it is a business proposition." 

" All right. Have your way." He sat 
down at the table and scribbled a cheque, 
which he tore from the book, but he refrained 
from handing it to his companion. " After 
all, since we are to be on such terms, Mr. 
Altamont," said he, " I don't see why I 
should trust you any more than you trust 
roe. Do you understand ? " he added, 
looking back over his shoulder at the American. 
"There's the cheque upon the table. I 
claim the right to eixamine that parcel before 
you pick the money up." 

The American passed it over without a 
word. Von Bork undid a winding of string 
and two wrappers of paper. Then he sat 
gazing for a moment in silent amazement 
at a small blue book which lay before him. 
Across the cover was printed in golden tetters, 
" Practical Handbook of Bee Culture." Only 
for one instant did the master-spy glare 
at this strangely-irrelevant inscription. The 
next he was gripped at the back of his neck 
by a grasp, of iron, and a chloroformed sponge 
was held in front of his writhing face. 

" Another glass, Watson ? M said Mr. 
Sherlock Holmes, as he extended the dusty 
bottle of Imperial Tokay. *' We must drink 
tc **-" » joyous reunion." 

thick-set chauffeur, who had seated 
hi „f by the table, pushed forward his 
gl with some eagerness. 

a good wine, Holmes," he sai(J, when 
hi _ drunk heartily to the sentiment. 

emarkable wine, Watson. Our noisy 
It »~on the sofa has assured me that 

it i Franz Joseph's special cellar at 

tl ~-ibrunn Palace; Might I trouble 

Digitized by LiOOgle 

you to open the window, for chloroform 
vapour does not help the palate." 

The safe was ajar, and Holmes, who was 
now standing in front of it, was removing 
dossier after dossier, swiftly examining each, 
and then packing it neatly in c Von Bork's 
valise. The German lay upon the sofa sleeping 
stcrtorously, with a strap round his upper 
arms and another round his legs. 

" We need not hurry ourselves, Watson. 
We are safe from interruption. Would you 
mind touching the bell ? There is no one in 
the house except old Martha, who has played 
her part to admiration. I got her the situa- 
tion here when first I took the matter up. 
Ah, Martha, you will be glad to hear that all 
is well." 

The pleasant old lady had appeared in the 
doorway. She curtsied with a smile to Mr. 
Holmes, but glanced with some apprehension 
at the figure upon the sofa. 

" It is all right, Martha. He has not been 
hurt at all." 

"lam gjad of that, Mr. Holmes. According 
to his lights he has been a kind master. He 
wanted me to go with his wife to Germany 
yesterday, but that would hardly have suited 
your plans, would it, sir ? " 

" No, indeed, Martha. So long as you 
were here I was easy in my mind. We 
waited some time for your signal to-night." 

" It was the secretary, sir ; the stout 
gentleman from London." 

" I know. His car passed ours. But for 
yc/ur excellent driving, Watson, we should 
have been the very type of Europe under 
the Prussian juggernaut. What* more, 

" I thought he would never go. I knew 
that it would not suit your plans, sir, to find 
him here." 

" No, indeed. Well, it only meant that 
we waited half an hour or so on the hill 
until I saw your lamp go out and knew that 
the coast was clear. You can report to me 
to-morrow in London, Martha, at Claridge's 
Hotel." ' 

" Very good, sir." 

" I suppose you have everything ready to 
leave ? " 

" Yes, sir. He posted seven letters to- 
day. I have the addresses, as usual. He 
received nine ; I have these also." 

" Very good, Martha. I will look into 
them to-morrow. Good-night. These papers," 
he continued, as the old lady vanished, 
" are not of very great importance, for, of 
course, the information which they represent 
has been sent off long ago to the German 




Government These are the originals, which 
could not safely be got out of the country." 

" Then they are of no use ? " 

" I should not go so far as to say that, 
Watson. They will at least show our people 
what is known and what is not. I may say 
that a good many of these documents have 
come to him through me, and I need not add 
are thoroughly untrustworthy. It would 
brighten my declining years to see a German 
cruiser navigating the Solent according to 
the rpine-field plans which I have furnished. 
But you, Watson " — he stopped his work and 
took his old friend by the shoulders — "I've 
hardly seen you in the light yet. How have 
the years used you ? You look the same 
blithe boy as ever." 

" I feel twenty years younger, Holmes. 
I have seldom felt so happy as when I got 
your wire asking me to meet you at Harwich 
with the car. But you, Holmes — you have 
changed very little — savS for that horrible 

/'Those are the sacrifices 'one makes for 
one's country, Watson," said Holmes, pulling 
at his little tuft. " To-morrow it will be 
but a dreadful memory. With my hair cut 
and a few other superficial changes I shall 
no doubt reappear at Claridge's to-morrow 
as I was before this American stunt — I beg 
your pardon, Watson; my well of English 
seems- to be permanently defiled — before this 
American job came my way." 

" But you had retired, Holmes. We^ 
heard of you as living the life of a hermit 
among your bees and your books in a small 
farm upon the South Downs." 

" Exactly, Watson. Here is the fruit of 
my leisured ease, the magnum opus of my latter 
years ! " He picked up the volume from 
the table and read out the whole title, " ' Prac- 
tical Handbook of Bee Culture, with some 
Observations upon the Segregation of the 
Qyeen.' Alone I did t it. Behold *he fruit 
of pensive nights and laborious days, when 
I watched the little working gangs as once I 
watched the criminal world of London." 

" But how did you get to work again ? " 

" Ah ! I have often marvelled at it myself. 
The Foreign Minister alone I could have with- 
stood, btit when the Premier also deigned 

to visit my humble roof ! The fact is, 

Watson, that this gentleman upon the sofa 
was a bit too good for our people. He was 
in a class by himself. Things were going 
wrong, and no one could understand why 
they were going wrong. Agents were sus- 
pected or even caught, but there was evi- 
dence of some strong and secret central 


force. It was absolutely necessary to expose 
it^ Strong pressure was brought upon me 
to look into the matter. It has cost me 
two years, Watsfcn, but they have riot been 
devoid of excitement. When I say that I 
started my pilgrimage at Chicago, graduated 
in* an Irish secret society at Buffalo, gave 
serious troubje to the constabulary at Skib- 
bereen, and so eventually caught the eye 
of a subordinate agent of Von Bork* who 
recommended me as a likely man, you will 
realize that the matter was complex. Since 
then I have been honoured by his confidence, 
which has not prevented most of his plans 
going subtly wrong and five of his best agents 
being in prison. I watched them, Watson, 
and I picked them as they ripened. Well, 
sir, I hope that you are none the worse ? " 

The last remark was addressed to Yon 
Bork himself, who, after much gasping and 
blinking, had lain quietly listening to Holmes's 
statement. He broke out now into a furious 
stream of German invective, his face con- 
vulsed with passion. Holmes continued his 
swift investigation of documents, his long,* 
nervous fingers opening and folding the papers 
while his prisoner, cursed and swore. 

" Though unmusical, German is the most 
expressive of all languages," he * observed, 
when Von Bork had stopped from pure 
exhaustion. " Halloa ! Halloa !" he added, 
as he looked hard a& the corner of a tracing 
before putting it in the box. " This should 
put another bird in the .cage. I had no idea 
that the paymaster was such a rascal, though 
I have long had an eye upon him. Dear 
me, Mister Von Bork, you have a great 
deal to answer for ! " 

The prisoner had raised himself with some 
difficulty upon the sofa and was staring 
with a strange mixture of amazement and 
* hatred at his captor, 

" I shall get leveL Avith you, Altamont," 
he said, speaking with slow deliberation. 
"If it takes me all my life I shall get level 
with you." * 

" The old sweet song," said Holmes. 
"How often have I heard it in days 
gone by! It was a favourite ditty of the 
late lamented Professor Moriarty. Colonel 
Sebastian Moran has also been known to 
warble it. And yet I live and keep bees 
upon the South Downs." 

"Curse you, you double traitor!" cried 
the German, straining against his bonds 
and glaring murder from his furious eyes. 

" No, no, it is not so bad as that," said 
Holmes, smiling. " As my speech surely 
shows you, Mr, Altamont of Chicago had 

_- 1 1 >_i 1 1 1 >.i i i w 






in fact. He was a concoction, first acquaintance with the members of your 

rand from my bundle family. I have done a good deal of business 

malittes. i im and he is gone." in Germany in the past, and my nan: 

probably familiar to you," 

immaterial who I am, but u I would wish to know it," said the 

matter you, Mr. Prussian, grimly, 

'tis k n M my *' It was I vyJk* U'uigLt about the separa- 



tion between Irene Adler knd the late King 
of Bohemia when your cousin Heinrich was 
the Imperial Envoy. It was I also who 
saved from murder by the Nihilist Klopman, 
Count Von und Zu Grafenstein, who was 
your mother's elder brother. It was I " 

Von Bork sat up in amazement. 

" There is only one man " he cried. 

" Exactly/' said Holmes. 

Von Bork groaned jind sank back on the 
sofa. " And most of that information came 
through you ! " he cried. " What is it worth ? 
What have I done ? It is my ruin for ever ! " 

" It is certainly a little untrustworthy," 
said Holmes. " It will require some checking, 
and you have little time to check it. Your 
admiral may find the new guns rather larger 
than he expects and the cruisers perhaps a 
trifle faster." 

Von Bork clutched at his own throat in 

" There are a good many other points of 
detaij which will no doubt come to light in 
good time. But you have one quality 
which is very rare in a German, Mr. Von 
Bork: you are a sportsman, and you will 
bear me no ill will when you realize that you, 
who have outwitted so many other people, 
have at last been outwitted yourself. After 
all, you have done your best for your country 
and I have done my best for mine, and what 
could be more natural ? Besides," he added, 
not unkindly, as he laid his hand upon the 
shoulder of the prostrate man, " it is better 
than to fall before some more* ignoble foe. 
These papers are now ready, Watson. If 
you will help me with our prisoner I think 
that we may get started for London at once." 

It was no easy task to move Von Bork, 
for he was a strong and a desperate man. 
Finally, holding either arm, the two friends 
walked him very slowly down the garden 
path, which he had trod with such proud 
confidence when he received the congratu- 
lations of the famous diplomatist only a few 
hours before. After a short final struggle 
he was hoisted, still bound hand and foot, 
into the spare seat of" the little car. His 
precious valise was wedged in beside him. 

" I trust that you are as comfortable as 
circumstances permit," said Holmes, when 
the final arrangements were made. " Should 
I be guilty of a liberty if I lit a cigar and 
placed it between your lips ? " 

But all amenities were wasted upon the 
angry German. 

" I suppose you realize, Mr. Sherlock 
-Holmes," said, he, " that if your Governmerft 
bears you out in this treatment it becomes 
an act of war ? " 

" What about your Government and all 
this treatment ? " said. Holmes, tapping the 

" You are a private individual. You have no 
warrant for my arrest. The whole proceeding 
is absolutely illegal and outrageous." 
* " Absolutely," said Holmes. 
" Kidnapping a German subject." 
" And stealing his private papers." 
" Well, you realze your position, you and 
your accomplice here. If I were to shout 

£pr help as we pass through the village " 

" My dear sir, if you did anything so foolish 
you would probably enlarge the too-limited 
titles of our village inns by giving us ' The 
Dangling Prussian ' as a sign-post The 
Englishman is a patient creature, but at 
present his temper is a little inflamed, and 
it would be as well not to try him too far. 
No, Mr. Vori Bork, you will go with us in 
a quiet, sensible fashion to Scotland Yard, 
whence you can send for your friend Baron 
Von Herling and see if even now you may 
not fill that place which he has reserved 
for you in the Ambassadorial suite. As 
to you, Watson, you are joining up with your 
old service, as I understand, so London 
won't be out of your way. Stand with me 
here upon the terrace, for it may be the last 
quiet talk that we shall ever have." 

The two friends chatted in intimate con- 
verse for a few minutes, recalling once again 
the days of the past, whilst their prisoner 
vainly wriggled to undo the bonds that 
held him. As they turned to the car Holmes 
pointed back to the moonlit sea and shook 
a thoughtful head. 
" There's an east wind coming, Watson." 
" I think not J Holmes. It is very warm." 
" Good old Watson ! You are the one 
fixed point in a changing age. There's an 
east wind coming all the same, such a wind 
as never blew on England yet. It will be 
cold and bitter, Watson, and a good many 
of us may wither before its blast. But it's 
God's own wind none the less, and a cleaner, 
better, stronger land will lie in the sunshine 
when* the storm has cleared. Start her up, 
Watson, for it's time that we were on our 
way. I have a cheque for five hundred 
pounds which should be cashed early, for 
the drawer is quite capable of stopping it, 
if he can." 

by Google 

Original from 





How much does the censorship affect the news ? Mr. Shepherd has had wide 
experience on which to base an answer. He has reported the war from 
every important battle^front in Europe. He has had to submit copy to the 
censors of almost every warring nation. As correspondent of the United Press 
he described the destruction of Belgium ; he was the only newspaperman who 
saw the second battle of 'Ypres ;• he was the first American reporter permitted 
at the British front in France, He has been at the German front ; with the 
Austrians at Przemysl ; with the Italians in the Trieste district. He reported 
four of the greatest retreats of the war, including the retreat of the Austrians, 
and later that of the Serbians, from Serbia, This article, which could only have 
been written by the representative of a neutral nation, answers the questions 
we have all asked about the censorship in reading our war news. 

% m 

STARTED my war-reporting 
as a censor-fighter. 

Censorship distorts the news, 

and any inexperienced and 

conscientious war - reporter 

considers himself justified in 

censor-baiting. He starts out 

in his career of war-reporting as a u bad 

man," belligerent for truth, feeling that there • 

is a certain holiness in his attitude. 

But the censor's big blue pencil will, in 
lime, bring every war-reporter to repentance. 
U it. doesn't, then his career, as a war-reporter 
is irrevocably ended and hell probably go 
back home. 

You can't be a war-reporter in these days 
and not be u good." 

During the past three years I have been 
continuously under censorship, even as to 
my personal correspondence. I started out, 
as I ' have said, a censor-fighter ; and I've 
ha** my share of luck at the game. But 
fo* *cn censorships through which I have 
pa 1 (and I have written copy that has been 
cci red by three European nations at a 
tir ) have taught me a better way, of which 
I j - 1 ! write later. 

t my duty to my editors demanded that 
Is . _ld outwit all the censors who came my 
wa ter a short experience of a few 

rai Kwsless days on the Ally side, I went 

into Germany, and there my first experience 
confirmed my belief that censors were my 
enemies, and put me on the offensive against 
the whole tribe of. them. The experience 
•was this. 

In the city of Munich I wrote a harmless 
but colourful story about war-conditions in 
the town, and took it to the office of the 
censor. He was an elderly German colonel, 
highly decorated, who spoke English excel- 
lently. He greeted >ne effusively, as I laid 
the copy on the high desk where he stood 
at work. 

" An American ! " he exclaimed. " I'm 
very glad to meet you. America to-day is 
the conscience of the world ; all the rest of 
us have gone mad. It will please me greatly 
to help you get the truth back to your country. 
The truth is all that we Germans ask." 

He read over my story, folded it up without 
changing a word, and handed it to me with 
the envelope. 

" You may mail it yourself," he said. " I'm 
sure I can trust you." 

I opened the folded manuscript and started 
to write the word " Censored " on it. 

In a flash his kindness fell away. " Please 
do not say that your article has been cen- 
sored," he said. " Let it go just as it is." 

I was forced, of course, to yield to his 
demand. But there ivlafrtfi Jie in that piece 


2 3 8 


of manuscript ; the absence of the word 
" Censored " was a lie that warped the 
news-value of my story. The object of 
omitting that one word was to cany to 
the outside world the impression that , 
Germany was not hindering newspaper- 
men in their expressioa of opinion. 

Censorship, as I understood it at the 
time, was intended to cover military 
and political contingencies ; here it was 
covering a lie which I was being forced 
to send to a neutral country. 

Let me say, incidentally, that, while I 
have never known a censor to add words 
or phrases to a newspaper story that 
would change its meaning, nevertheless 
they have often changed the whole intent 



t* c#> Z A 

of a piece of news by clever 

After that experience the 
entire German system of cen- 
sorship' challenged me. Its 
j$ great policies of military and 
political safety I could under- 
stand ; its petty policy Af 
trying to mould public opinion 
in small matters only spurred 
me on to beat it, if possible. 
I found many other American 


of the censorship 
system to use the 
reporters as tools 
in influencing neu- 
tral opinion was 
highly offensive. 
There was 
another rule of the German censorship which 
was provoking. I was not allowed to know 
what had been deleted from my despatches. 
Herewith appears a photographic illustration 
of a page from one of my letters sent 
to my New York office from Przemysl, 
in Galicia, jn November, 1914. I do not 
remember exactly what I wrote in the part 
that has been scissored out ; but my 
subject was the efforts which the Austrians 
were making, with the use of slaked lime, to 
stamp out Asiatic cholera. 

I told how the 
reporters and correspondents railroad routes were great' " white ways," and 
in Germany at that time who how the whiteness of lime covered everything, 

even the box-cars. 

This was the first story I had submitted 
to an Austrian censor, and I expected, of 
course, that I should be informed as to 
whether it would be changed or not. It was 

not until many 

felt as I did about the German 
system. No one resented 
actions by the censors which 
prevented reporteis from 
sending . news, but the efforts 





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M, J 





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Digitized by \j( 


1 1 1 ■/■ 1 1 1 '.* 1 1 1 

months later that 
I knew how my 
stuff was t nng 
cut. Instead of 
being taken flto 
the confideno of 
the censor, ai the 
writers in our 
party were lo ked 
upon with eep 
suspicion. Ir' *d, 





the whole attitude of the censor was one of 
distrust and challenge. 

There came suddenly one day the retreat 
from Przemysl, when we wore put on trains 
and bundled off towards Budapest- Wc 
were informed that any stories which pic- 
tured our departure from Przemysl as a 
hasty retreat would be held up ; and there 
was no way of getting 
anything out without 
submitting it to the 
tensor. Here was a 
story to beat a censor 
with* In an hotel at 
Budapest I sat down 
to a typewriter and 
drew forth all my 
stork of slang, I tried 
to think of the fastest 
thing that runs } _ and 
my. mind settled on 
Kokhmainen, the 
great Finnish 
Marathon runner, I 
began my story thus : 
"Beating it from 
Przemysl was one 
grand Ku^hmameD* 7 ' 
1 wrote thirty para- 
graphs of the sheerest 
slang, describing the 
retreat like a star 
baseball writer* 

Our language- 
loving ten sot ? who 

was inordinately proud of his ability to speak 
seven tongues, never winked an eye tfver 
*that copy ; the chances were that he did not 
understand one-third of it ; but no man with 
a head shaped like his ever admitted that 
there was anything in the world he didn't 
know. The story went, 

I had fully expected that the office in New 
York would decode, or deslang, the story ; 
but it didn't. Oat over the wires to every 
corner of the United States went the story 
of that gruesome retreat, written in baseball 
slang ; and several editors wrote to the New 
York office suggesting that I should turn out 
ie more of that snappy stuff, like the 
ivsl retreat," 

Austrian disliked me when the echoes 

«t slangy Przemysl Yetreat story began 

"Tie back to Vienna, 

certain New York newspaper manager, 

felt that he was not getting a sufficient 

5 return for the money he was spending, 

on a boat, a month or so after the war 

^rted, determined to go to London and 




have it out with the censors. He felt that 
a little New York vim was needed in his 
London bureau. t£ I'm going to puU a little 
fast New York stuff/' he said. With his 
London manager, he went to the censor's 
bureau, Jt was unly hy a persistent clamour 
that they reached a bureau censor. 

11 Now, look here/' said the New York man; 
l * my newspapers are 
not trying to harm 
the British Govern- 
ment. We want to 
work with the censor, 
not against him. 
Won't you tell us how 
we can co-operate 
with the censor? ]> 

" My dear man/* 
said the Britisher, 
,( we don't need any 
co- opera ti on + This is 
purely a one-sided 
affair* Good day* 1 

Every word of war- 
news which comes 
from Europe to the 
eyes of the American 
public has b e e n 
weighed by censors as 
carefully as precious 
stones are weighed by 
diamond merchants. 
One tiny word, or 
arrangement of 
words, may send to 
the bottom of the sea a great ship of may 
cost the lives of thousands of men in the 
field, It's all up to the censor. As he 
sits at his table with telegrams, letters, 
and the stories of newspaper correspondents 
passing under his gaze, and with the weight 
of his country's welfare resting, to no small 
extent, on his shoulders, every little nervous 
fear of treachery, 'every whim of his mind, is 
expressed by his use of scissors or blue pencil, 
" Father is dead" ran a cablegram from 
Sweden to New York which passed through 
the British censorship. 

For some inexplicable reason the censor 
didn't like the word " dead," He changed 
it to " deceased." 

Within a. short time this question, sent 
from New York to Sweden, passed through 
the hands of the same censor: ** Is j at her 
dead or deceased I " 

The more I see of the censor's job, the 
more I sympathize with the censor, and the 
more I prefer to. be the man who writes the 
stuff rather J - ] 8miPfllSpofiRe who censors it. 


shaped like his ever 
was anything in the 

dn't know,'' 





V Vom Kricgsprcssequartfer 


The mistakes of a writing-man in war-time 
can hardly be fatal, but the error of a censor 
may flame out in a catastrophe at any time. 
With unlimited power, he has the right to 
give himself the benefit of the doubt every 
time a doubt rises. 

An excellent illustration of how the censors 
are always on the alert comes to my mind in 
connection with an interview that I had with 
Winston Churchill when he was First Lord of 
the British Admiralty in fhe early war-days. 
During the many visits 
I paid to the dusty and 
historic old Admiralty 
building and the several 
conferences I had with 
Churchill in his private 
office, I began to feel 
at home in Admiralty 
surroundings. . I became 
acquainted with a number 
of secretaries. I chatted 
with them in the hallways. 
I was introduced to some 
important officials who 
knew that I was preparing 
an important article for 
American newspapers. 
Usually it was an ex- 
tremely difficult matter 
even to enter the doors of 
the Admiralty building ; 
but the doormen and the 
policemen in the hallways, 
knowing my important 
mission, always greeted 
me pleasantly and per- 
mitted me to pass without 

I proudly felt that I 
had been taken into the 
confidence of all the 
Admiralty folk about me, 
and Fd undergo shooting 
to-day rather than tell, 
even at this late time, 
some of the matters which 


came to my knowledge during that pleasant 
two weeks. 

At last the interview was finished and 
written exactly as it was to go. Mr. Churchill, 
one evening at five o'clock, put his signature 
to it, called his secretary, and said: '^Please 
take Mr. Shepherd to the censor's office and 
introduce him. Tell the censor that the 
interview with me is all right." 

I was led through a maze of gloomy hall- 
ways, lighted in part by gas, to a doorway 
which bore the legend 

" This is Sir So-and-so, 
the naval censor/' said 
the secretary, presenting 
me to a strong-featured, 
iron - grey - haired man. 
" This is Mr. Shepherd, an 
American journalist, who 
is sending an interview 
.with the First Lord to 
America to-night." 

" Very well," said the 
man of title, " we'll take 
care of it." 

"I want to write just 
a few words to lead the 
story," Isaid. Iexplained 
that my manuscript con- 
tained only the interview, 
and that it would be 
necessary to write a short 

For the first time in my 
two weeks around the 
Adjniralty I saw distrust 
in the eyes of an Admiralty 
man. The policemen it 
the door might h; *e 
trusted me : that i is 
their business. The < :- 
retaries might have d e 
the same : that was tl ir 
look-out. Wins* n 
Churchill might hi e 

by \j 

third a British press bureau skal.. placed confidence in i f 

. r v '-TlyTT TIGMTI w 





journalistic integrity : Churchill could do as 
he pleased. But as for himself, he was 
neither a policeman, a secretary, nor the 
First Lord : he was the censor, whose duty is 
to mistrust. He was the last sieve through 
which my work was to pass. If I were pro- 
Gerrfran and mine a spy's work, now was the 
last chance to stop it. He read the manu- 
script carefully. 

When he had finished he looked up into 
ray face and said : " You want to write an 
introduction to this, eh ? " 

" Yes," I answered. " It starts out too 
abruptly for an American newspaper story." 

He hesitated a minute. Then he said : 
" All right. Write it here. But listen ! No 
hanky-panky ! " He looked me square in the 

I knew what he meant by that phrase. 
He meant : " These fellows around here 
may trust you, but I don't. I'm the 
censor and you're a newspaper-man. Every 
reporter's a wrong 'un to me until he 
proves he's right. I know you've got an . 
interview with the First Lord of the British 
Admiralty. I know it's what you call a 
big newspaper stunt, and that, by to-morrow 
morning, it will be read by millions and 
millions of human beings in many lan- 
guages, and that it will be telling England's 
side of the war to the world. But none of 
that impresses me. I'm not going to. give 
you the benefit of any doubt. If you are a 
wrong 'un, look out ! " 

" Write an introduction yourself," I sug- 

" Go ahead with yours," he said, grimly. 

I wrote, with a lead-pencil, at the head of 
the article, these words : " Winston Churchill, 
First Lord of the British Admiralty, granted 
me an interview to-day," and pushed the copy 
over to him. 

J< Is that all ? " he said, more gently. 

" I can't think of any more to say," I 

" Very good," he said, smiling, as I rose .to 
go. "I was afraid you were going to write * 
something intricate." 

He telephoned to the cable-office, ordered 1 
tl 1 the interview should be given right-of- 
m y, and within fifty-five minutes the story 
w s in New York. 

le had been protecting England and hi ni- 
si f. As a censor he was a hundred-per-center. 
I at he was not a friend of newspaper-men. 
A good censor and a good war-reporter can 
n ver be real friends — unless the war-reporter 
if working with his own army and is moved 

b ' patriotism, 
VoL Uv.-ie. 

Considering the censor's responsibility, it 
is always a source of wonder to me that he 
ever lets anything go through. In my exten- 
sive dealings with censors I have been more 
surprised at what they have permitted me 
to send than at what they have cut out. 
Whatever success any of the American corre- 
spondents have had in getting " tough " war- 
stories past the censor has grown out of the 
fact that they sympathized with him and 
tried to get his view-point. 

In the office of a great news association 
recently the editor showed me a pile of type- 
written copy which had been sent by mail 
from a certain capital in Europe. The signa- 
ture of a censor was at the bottom of each 
page, but not oT\e word of the several thousand 
had been touched with a blue pencil. 

" The censors hardly ever touch our stuff 
now," explained the editor. " Early in the 
war it used to be all chopped up, but it comes 
pretty clean these days." 

This editor did not mean to say that the 
censorship had become lax. He knew as well 
as I did that the .reason for the untouched 
pages was that the correspondents in Europe 
had learned to take the censor's view-point 
and to see the war through the censor's eyes. 
The American correspondent in any of the 
European countries these days knows very 
well that // does not pay to try to beat the censor. 
This is the one big fact that stands out just 
now in the war-correspondent's life. 

Not many months ago an American cor- 
respondent left New York for London carry- 
ing a code for the use of his London office. 
By, means of this code the New York office 
hoped to receive more complete news of the 
sinking of ships than the censor had permitted 
to go out. At the risk of a severe penalty, 
the New York reporter had got the code past 
the port authorities, and he slammed it down 
triumphantly on the desk of the London 

" There's a code that'll beat 'em all," said 
the New Yorker. 

The experienced London manager, with an 
expression of long-suffering patience on his 
face (for his New York office had been 
clamouring persistently for " more news "), 
took the precious papers, slowly tore them 
into bits, and tossed them into the glowing 

" Nothing like that here/' he said. " If 
our papers print more news about the sinking 
of ships than the other papers do, our crime'll 
stand out like a sore thumb. The better a 
code is, the more dangerous it is." 



Austro-Italian front, not 
many months ago, the 
Austrian staff -officers gave 
an after-dinner concert for 
a few correspondents* The 
staff-officer who acted as 
censor was not a music- 
lover, and he departed 
from the gathering before 
the programme w T as ended. 
The finale was an ''Ave 
Maria/ ! exquisitely played 
by piano, Velio, and several 
violins, and the effect was 
highly sentimental* The 
next day one of the corre- 
spondents, writing of the 
concert, told how thoughts 
of home and loved ones had 
come over the war- bound 
officers as they had listened 
to the strains of the beauti- 
ful old air. He wrote that 
11 chins dropped to chests 
and heads were bowed, in 
contemplation and reverie, 
while the cannon boomed 
out above the sad music." 

" No * china dropped to 
chests ' in that crowd," said 
the non- music-loving cen- 
sor, as he read the story, 
"I don't want the world 
to think that Austrian officers ever feel sad." 
And his blue pencil cut out every reference 
to the sweet spell which the music, amid the 
sound of guns, had thrown over the Austrian 

Very often the personal pride of a censor 
in his ability to read and write a foreign 
language will appear in his work. A certain 
American correspondent, describing the spring 
flowers in the vicinity of the trenches, wrote 
of anemones, violets, and i( john-quills." 
Evidently the misspelling hurt the French 
censor as much as it hurts an American reader, 
for, in a firm, aggressive script, he dashed out 
the offending word and wrote over it the 
letters j-o-n-Q-i>i-l-s, 

An Austrian censor, when I wrote the word 
M worshipper," cut out one 4t p." The dic- 
tionary discloses that we were both right, as 
the word is a variant. 

Young censors will invariably thrust for- 
ward their personal opinion in their work, 

"Go to Vienna and discover why the 
Austrian s will not permit Emmy Destinn to 
come to the United States," was an assign- 
ment which an American correspondent in 

iw H there's a code that'll beat 


Berlin received some time 
ago from his Jsew York 
office. The correspondent 
complied and secured a 
highly-interesting story. 
TheAustrianSjhe explained, 
felt that Destinn had not 
shown as much loyalty to 
the Austrian cause as might 
have been expected of her, 
and so the permission that 
had been granted her to 
visit the United States 
had been revoked. The 
reporter put the story 
through the Austrian 
censor and telegraphed it 
to Berlin, to be forwarded 
from there by wireless. 
When he returned to Berlin 
two days later he found 
that the story was being 
held up in the office of the 
German censor, 

H What's the matter with 
that story ? " he demanded 
of the censor who had held 
it, u The Austrian censors 
passed it all right." 

u Well, they were throng 
in doing it/' said the censor. 
41 You're painting this 
woman as a martyr/' 
11 Give me the copy," said the reporter- 
He took it to the office of Count George 
Wedeb the chief censor, a patron of mu*ic in 
GermanVj and related his troubles. 

" Why; the fool ! " said Count WcdftL 

" Every person in the United States who 
loves music has a right to know why Destinn 
isn't singing to them this yean" And he 
permitted the story to pass. 

Later investigation disclosed that the man 
who had stopped the story was acting as t 
temporary censor, and had been on the job 
only two days. 

In the days of the enmity between cor* 
respondents and censors, when life was one 
long fight between them, KarJ H* von Wiegand, 
the noted Herlin correspondent, achieved, per- 
haps, the biggest defeat of the censorship that 
will be recorded in the war, It is not generally 
known that Von Wiegand's interview with the 
Crown Prince of Germany bad to be smuggled 
out of the country. Von Wiegand reached 
the Crown Prince through unofficial channels, 
and, after talking with him for several hour?, 
returned to Berlin and wrote his story, in his 



hours had elapsed angry officialdom learned 
that Von Wiegand had talked with the Crown 
Prince without its permission, and was writing 
a story about the visit, 

The censor of the Foreign Office sent to 
Von Wiegand's office demanding that the 
story should be turned over to the censor* 
Yon Wiegand refused, and said that he would 
not discuss the matter with any less person 
than the chief censor himself, As soon as 
the censor had left his office Von Wiegand 
hired a courier and started him on his way 
lo Holland with the story. The courier got 
through, and when Von Wiegand learned that 
the story had safely reached London he took 
a copy of the interview to the Foreign Office 
and submitted it ? saying, " You may cut this 
copy as you liko. My story is on the way to 
the United States by this time/ 5 

The Uritishj Jet me say, are inclined to 
put a correspondent on his lion our j or, at 
least, they are inclined to let him go as far 
as he wants to and then expect him to suffer 
whatever punishment he brings to himself, if 
ho goes too far. On the night of September 
^8th, 1915, a Zeppelin, hovering over London, 
gave the city its first taste of death from the 
skies. The Zeppelin had hardly disappeared 
before the Press Bureau sent word to all the 
newspapers, and to the American and other 
correspondents , that they \Vere not even to 
submit to the censor any stories of the raid, 
much less publish or cable them. The 
Press Bureau then sent out a short formal 
statement, saying that a Zeppelin had 
visited the Eastern Counties and the London 

Bursting with our stories, we American 
reporters found it impossible to contain our- 
selves. Several of us did submit stories, and 
I have heard that several correspondents were 
threatened with punishment 
for having done so. I was 
among those who gave a story 
to the censor. I wrote that 
story, weighing every word, 
just as the censor would weigh 
it, I did not give localities ; f 
^'d not tell what the Zeppelin 

d done to London, hut 

at it had done to the minds 

London people. London 

id been brave— and I said 

so ; London had got mad, instead of scared, 
and recruiting began to jump that very 
evening — and I said that, too. And, twenty- 
four hours later, to my great delight., I learned 
by cable from New York that my Zeppelin- 
raid story had gone through and had been 
the only story to reach New York. I attribute 
my success with that story to the fact that 
I put myself in an Englishman's place and 
wrote the story as lie would have written it, 

I got over a second story about the raid 
the next day. I had an engagement to 
interview Marconi the morning after the 
raid ; I had planned to ask him questions 
about the use of wireless in the war. When 
I entered his office I found him sleepy and 

14 1 was up until an unearthly hour this 
morning/' he said, 
" Did you chase the Zeppelin ? " I asked. 
L£ Everywhere ! " he exclaimed. u I got 
a taxicab, and_I went to all the fires and I 
saw all the horrible sights." t 

" Mr, Marconi," I said, u you and Count 
Zeppelin are the two most picturesque inven- 
tors of this century. Will you tell me, for 
publication, what you think of the work of 
your fellow- in vent or j from what vou saw lust 
night ? w 

" Thank God," said Marconi, ardently, 
" they can't use my invention to kill women 
and children, as they used Zeppelin's last 
night ! If I were Zeppelin I would demand 
of my emperor that he should cease the use 
of my invention for such terrible purposes." 

There was my Zeppelin-raid story. In 
Marconi's own words I cabled a description 
of the fires and, deaths in the heart of London, 
And not a word was changed by the censor ; 
it was the kind of a story, I think, that the 
censor would hive liked to send out himself. 
" You seem to have arrived 
at the point where you sym- 
pathize with the censor," said 
a friend, after reading certain 
parts of what I have written 

I don't exactly sympathize 
with the censor. But I have 
seen enough of war to know that 
the side which dropped censor- 
ship would be immediately 
defeated on land and sea. 




by Google 

Original from 




Illustrated by G. Henry Evison. 

ilHERE was no light in the big 
room except the deep orange 
glow of the fire on the broad 
stone hearth, so that the rest 
was merged in the shadows — 
shadows velvety black, with 
suggestions of light here and 
there such as Rembrandt loved to paint. A 
fine, big room, radiating comfort and luxury, 
and refined silence, as if the world were very 
far away ; which, indeed, it was, for the old 
house nestled on the edge of Whinborough 
Common, over against the golf-links, the only 
house within two miles of where it stood. 

On either side of the fire were deep arm- 
chairs, merely suggested in that velvety 
gloom ; in the big bay window a roll-top 
desk, which was the only modern note in the 
house. And round about that roll-top desk 
there played, presently, little violet specks of 
light in thin, dagger-like flashes, hardly visible 
in themselves, but quite sufficient for their 
purpose. There came, too, suddenly, a touch 
of the keen October air, as if a window had 
been suddenly opened. And after that a 
faint creaking sound as if, perchance, the 
top of the desk had been pushed back very 
quietly and cautiously, followed by a fat 
and greasy chink, as if two coins had come 
in contact one with the other. Then a 
minute disc of violet Jight concentrated itself 
upon a little heap of sovereigns and the crisp 
outline of a bank-note or two. All this with 
no more sound than a mouse would have 
made behind the old oak panelling there at 
the back of the velvet-black shadows ; but it 
was sufficient for one man there. 

He leant forward out of the depths of his 
big arm-chair where he had been seated, listen- 
ing and sniffing up the damp pungency of the 
dew-drenched night, seated there as if he had 
been part and parcel of the shadows. There 
was just a tiny click, and the room was 
flooded with light. 

" Come along," the man in the arm-chair 
said. u Sit there in the chair opposite me." 

He spoke quietly enough, in a slow, clear- 
cut voice that had in it a vibration of command 
and perhaps a certain suggestion of cruelty. 
The other man, standing by the desk with the 
electric torch in his hand, wheeled suddenly 
round and stood thefe with parted lips and 
terror in those watery brown eyes of his. 

" Roger Broadley ! " he gasped. 

The words were faint enough, but they 
carried to the ears of the man sitting in the 
big arm-chair. He made no sign, the sugges- 
tion of a smile was still upon iiis lips, and 
those merciless flint- blue eyes of his were 
turned steadily ifpon the man with the torch 
in his hand. The smile was so fixed and the 
blue eyes so steadfast that the intruder was 
puzzled to know- whether his startled expres- 
sion had been heard or not. His first impulse 
was flight by the open window at the back of 
the desk, or, alternately, through the open 
door. But the craven fear that had paralyzed 
the man called Canton all his life held him 
now, and he cursed himself silently for his 
want of purpose. He was afraid to turn 
and fly, afraid of the bullet that might follow 
him, or the strong, nervous hand that might 
pluck him back. Very slowly and reluctantly 
he crossed the room and dropped unsteadily 
into the chair on the other side of the fire- 
place. He was still puzzled and dazed, and 
almost madly anxious to know if the other 
had recognized him. And there were urgent 
reasons why he should not be recognized 

But he could see no gleam of remembi. ? 
in the concentrated lightning of those fl - 
blue eyes. And with that Canton begar ) 
pull himself together again. With any 1 , 
he might be able to bluff himself out of it \ . 

" Fairly got me, haven't you ? " e 
hazarded, with a certain uneasy assumpt 1 
of ease. " Know me, perhaps ? " 




lisp, a slight defect due to -a missing front 
tooth. The big man in the opposite arm- 
chair smiled — smiled in a horribly capable, 
assured manner that brought the sweat out 
on Canton's face again. For the other man 
was so big and strong, so capable and certain 
of his ground. And those blue eyes burnt 
and seared like so many live wires in the heart 
of the craven opposite. 

" We won't discuss that for the moment," 
Broadley said. " And we need not waste 
time in guessing the reason that brought you 
here. That torch of yours and the open 
desk yonder with the gold and notes lying 
there would be proof, I think, satisfactory 
to any magistrate of ordinary intelligence. 
Now, this is the first time I have ever had the 
pleasure of meeting a gentleman of your 
profession. Have you been brought up to 
it, or was it, so to speak, forced upon you ? " 

Canton almost smiled. Obviously this man, 
whom he had every cause to fear, had not 
recognized him. Indeed, why should he ? 
Canton argued, for they had never met face 
to face, though Canton knew Broadley well 
enough by reputation. The mean little face, 
with its narrow, shifty eyes and unsteady lips, 
grew more resolute, and hope began to bud 

" Well ? " Broadley said. " Well ? Of 
course, you needn't talk unless you like. 
I suppose you know I am alone in the house. 
My man is away with the car, at Oxbridge 
Station, waiting for a friend of mine. So, 
you see, we are quite alone, and merely man 
to man.' There is nothing to detain you. 
You can go, if you like. Why don't you ? " 

Canton snarled bitterly. 

" Oh, yes, "I know all about that," he said. 
" You are a bigger man than I am, and you 
wouldn't talk like that if you weren't armed. 
Directly I turn my back upon you, I shall get 
one through the shoulder. You can't fool 
me ! " 

" I am not trying," Broadley said, quietly. 
" I am stating a self-evident fart, if you only 
knew it. You have me at a great dis- 

Canton snarled again ; he would have liked 
to have risen up and struck this sneering 
antagonist of his between those merciless blue 
eyes. He would have liked to disfigure that 
clean-shaven, humorous face, with its faint 
suggestion of cruelty about the corners of the 
lips. But he was afraid, and he cursed him- 
self for his fear. He knew himself to be a 
sneak and a coward, as he had been all his 
life. He sat there sullenly till Broadley 
spoke again. 

" Very well, then," the latter said. " 1 
have given you every opportunity. I have 
told you you could go if you like, and that 
you had me at a great disadvantage. But 
you are the class of criminal who never 
knows when he hears the truth ; in fact, 
doesn't understand when he does hear it- 
You think you are my prisoner. Well, we'll 
let it go at that. I am quite alone in the 
house, and feel in the mood for company. 
Now tell me something about your past life. 
From your accent, I should judge that at one 
time you were what is called a gentleman." 

The little spurt of hope burnt more clearly 
in Canton's breast. He was still in deadly 
fear of the man opposite, afraid of his strength 
and his coolness ; but it might be possible that 
a plausible tale, well told, would pave the 
path to freedom. And George Canton was 
quite good at that sort of thing. It was just 
the sneaking line of policy that his soul loved. 

" You are quite right there/' he said. " I 
was a gentleman at one time. Public school 
and university ; though, if you don't mind, I 
won't say which." 

" Oh, I don't mind in the least," Broadley 
smiled. " It would probably be a lie, in any 
case. . Go on." 

" You may not believe it," Canton said, 
" but I was brought up for the Church. And 
at one time I was honestly under the impres- 
sion that I should make a success of it. But 
somehow it didn't seem to work, and when I 
found myself in London at the age of twenty- 
three with a fair income and quite good pros- 
pects, I drifted gradually into evil ways, until 
nearly everything was gone and I had lost 
most of my friends." 

" And then you married ? " Broadley 

41 Then — then you know ? " Canton gasped. 

■" My good man, surely that was a reason- 
able guess. Men of your type always mam*. 
For some occult reason, known only to Provi- 
dence, the average waster seems always in a 
position to command the love and affection 
of some good woman. I have seen it over 
and over again. And shg clings to him till 
the end, where she would tire of a man wor**"" 
of the name. Of course you married. A 
of course, you broke the heart of the won 
who gave herself to you — though you 
going to deny it." 

" I didn't," Canton retorted. " I tell m 
I made a mistake ; perhaps we both did, . 
the matter of that. I had lost nearly all j 
money, as I told you, and all my friends, a 
I was beginning to get tired of the life I * 
leading. It seemeo to me t^at if I or 



meet the right woman there was a chance for 
me yet, because I was still young and I had 
not done badly at school and Cambridge. 
And I did meet her ; at least, I thought so. 
To begin with, she knew a good deal about 
my past, and was quite prepared to overlook 
it. And, mind you, I had still a few hundreds 
left. My idea was to go into business and 
settle down and become a respectable member 
of society. And I believe I should have done 
so if my wife had helped me." 

"And she didn't?" Broadley asked, 

11 Not after the first few months," Canton 
went on. 4i Perhaps it wasn't altogether her 
own fault. I was too *asy with her, too fond 
of her, and allowed her to have her own way 
too much. She hadn't the least notion of the 
value of money, and everything she wanted 
she just got. We were living in a flat in 
Bloomsbury, where my family had had a lot 
of property at one time, so that my credit 
was good, and -my wife could get all she 
needed. It was the old story : a foolish man 
over head and ears in love with a silly woman, 
vain and frivolous, who had only one object 
in life, and that was to enjoy herself. You 
can imagine how I suffered with the little 
money I had going out every day and nothing 
coming in, because my business efforts were 
a failure. You see, I wasn't made for busi- 
ness, I wasn't trained for it; and though I 
tried hard enough, God knows, I lost one 
situation after another*" 

Canton paused and sighed eloquently, the 
easy sigh of a man who has told his tale 
before and found it good. He reflected that 
perhaps he migjit touch the heart of the man 
opposite to a pitch of something more than 
freedom. And, above all, he had the feeling 
that Broadley had not recognized him. 

" Go on," Broadley said. " I am always 
interested in the human document, especially 
when it has frayed edges." 

" Well, the time came at last," Canton 
proceeded, " when things reached a crisis. 
I had no money left, and when my pretty doll 
of a wife discovered that, she threatened to 
1fl * ve me. Just at that time I was in the office 
a big firnj of jewellers. It was not that I 
is getting much, but my employer trusted 
e. More than once he had sent me to a 
jat house in the West-end with gems to 
liver on approval. That night I came home 
ith a pearl necklace in my pocket. It should 
•ve been delivered that evening at the house 
one of our great millionaires, but her lady- 
tip was out of town, or gone to some big 
jKtion, so 1 took the case home with me. 

Would to Heaven I had done nothing of the 
kind ! Would that I had said nothing to 
my wife about it, for she stole that necklace 
when I was asleep, and tried to sell it. Of 
course, she was found out ; of course, she was 
discovered and prosecuted for the theft. I 
was arrested too, and the people who prose- 
cuted me tried to make out that she was a 
tool in the matter, and that I had merely 
used my wife as a shield to hide my own 

" And the jury believed it?" Broadley 
asked, dryly. 

M They did, sir; they did," Canton whined. 
" They said that my wife was absolutely 
innocent, and that when I sent her with those 
pearls in her pocket to sell them to a notorious 
receiver of stolen goods for five hundred 
pounds I did so because I was too much of a 
coward to take them myself. I remember 
that the judge was particularly hard on me." " 

" I can imagine it," Broadley smiled. " I 
can imagine him saying that you were a 
particularly poisonous type of humanity, and 
a scoundrel of the worst kind who never 
hesitates to shield himself behind an innocent 
and injured woman." ' 

i( But you don't believe it, sir ? " Canton 
asked, with some anxiety. " You have heard 
of hard-working men who have been ruined 
by their wives ? " 

" Many a time," Broadley said. " And so * 
you are one of that class, are you ?. Evidently 
a sad case. But I interrupt you. What was 
the upshot of the tragedy ? " 

" I got five years," Canton said. " And 
they acquitted my wife, the judge saying that 
he was convinced that she was absolutely 
innocent. You see, being a pretty woman 
with friends, she could call all sorts of evidence 
in her favour, and she did. Why, when the 
jury acquitted her, there was actually applause 
in court. Not that I minded ; I still loved 
her far too well to want to see her suffer." 

Just for a moment the two steel-blue eyes 
turned fully on Canton's face blazed, and the 
strong, capable hands on the elbows of the 
arm-chair clenched till the knuckles stood out 
like ivory. Then the humorous mouth smiled 

" Your sentiments do you credit," Broadley 
said. " I quite understand, the strong man 
suffering in silence for the sake of a shallow 
and frivolous woman. My good sir, the thing 
has been done in scores of novels and plays, 
and will go on appealing to the gallery as 
long as there is a cinema palace left. So you 
went to jail, and the woman escaped scot- 
free. ^..^Ij^^^^ards ? Did 



you seek her out, 
did you find her in 
rags and poverty ? 
and take her back 
to your broad, 
manly bosom and 
wipe her tears 
away ? JJ 

Canton winced, 
hut wisely ignored 
the sarcasm. He 
was fighting for 
his liberty now, 
and therefore de- 
clined to be ruffled 
by such a little 
tiring as that. 

M I did find 
her, sir," he said. 
" And she did 
come back to me 
for a short time. 
But I had to leave 
her ; I had to 
leave her because 
she was past all 
endurance, I gave 
her every penny , 
that I had , and we 
parted for ever," 

"I wonder/' 
Broadley said, 
softly, M I jvonder 
if, on the face of 
God's earth 3 there 
is a slirrlieT scoun- 
drel than yourself? 
You did nothing of 
the kind. Canton," 

* b Then— then you recognize me ! J} the other 

" Oh ^ I recognized you right enough. 1 
knew who you were directly 1 turned the 
light on and you uttered my name under 
your breath. We have never met face to 
face, but you have seen me and you knew 
who I was at once. If you had known that 
this bungalow belonged to me, I hardly think 
that you would be sitting here to-night. I 
heard you speak only once when I was in 
the next room to you on an occasion that 
you might remember, and that little lisp of 
yours betrayed you— and the way in which 
you whispered my name. And, George Canton, 
you can take it from me that I never forget. 
When Nature deprives a man of one sense, she 
generally makes up for it by strengthening 
another. You rascal, hqw ^cWe^vcuJ lje to 


(ant on put up his hands as if to ward off 
a blow, He knew that all his efforts were in 
vain, he knew that he could expect no rr- 
at the hands of this man. He looked an 
wildly for some avenue of escape T anyw] 
to get away from those blazing eyes and that 
hard face that now was as cruel as the gTave. 
Hut he could see no sign of an opening a 
w litre. 

14 Now, let me tell the story , 3 * Broa^ 
said, coldly and incisively, in words i 
seemed to drop like little bits of ice a] 
Canton's spine. ki Let us collaborate, 
see, I am rather practised at that game, i 
I think I can add a touch or two of realisr 
that glib narrative of yours." 

lk fust as you like 5 sir," Canton s 

bl Then, in that ca^c, let us start M 


years ago to-ni^ht, strangely enough— tli at I 

became engaged to be married. You know 

what Agnes West ley was like, so I will not 

te time in painting her portrait for you, 

Slac wits as good as she was beautiful, in every 

way a perfect woman., and she loved me. My 

prospects were then perfect, there was no 

doud on the horizon anywhere. Really, you 

1 better g;o before I murder you-" 

Canton looked hopelessly into the heart of 

fire and then round the big room, with its 

book-shelves and pictures and the glint of 

china in the cabinets, and his jaw worked 

ubively. He burst out suddenly : — 

* You are torturing me, you devil ! " he 

said, ' You know I cannot get away, you 

ow I am in your power." 

Very well, then/' Broadley said, more 

nly. ** You have had your chance; and 

when you realize what you have lost and 

you have lost it — but never mind that* 

me go on* Where was I ? Yes, I was 

ng of Agnes Westley. I didn't know 

that she knew you ; I didn't know 

you were planning and contriving to 

8 between us until it was too late and I 

lost her, owing to those lies of yours and 

* forgeries that she believed. And for 

years I did not know where she was, until 

te to me for money. She would not 

— ! so but that you forced her, and it 




was only then that 
I learnt the story. 
When I called to 
see her in London 
I found her in 
miserable lodgings, 
for your money was 
all gone, and you 
were in desperate 
straits to find food 
for your wife and 
yourself. You were 
in bed at the time, 
you remember, and 
I heard you speak* 
I heard those 
rasping tones of 
yours witih that 
unmistakable lisp, 
which I have never 
forgotten, and 
which, somehow, I 
knew I should hear 
again, And even 
then, low as you had 
fallen, and badly as 
you had behaved, 
Agnes was doing her 
best to be a good wife to you* 1 helped her, 
as you know, but she would only take sufficient 
for her bare needs, and I left her, promising 
to see her again. The next day she was 
arnested in an attempt to get rid of those 
pearls which you had stolen. You told me a 
lie just now when you said you were a trusted 
servant. You stole those jewels, and, like 
the coward and cur that you are, you did not 
dare to take them to your employer who had 
commissioned you to steal them. You knew 
that the police were watching you ; you 
deceived your wife, and she fell into the hands 
of the police. And your defence was that 
you were a poor and struggling man who 
had been ruined by an extravagant wife, who 
took advantage of your love for her to spend 
all you had. You contemptible scoundrel, 
you vile and filthy dog ! Never was there a 
man who had a more loyal helpmate, though 
she had discovered the trick you had played 
upon her long ln-fore. But you were not 
ashamed to stand up in the dock by her side 
and tell the judge much what you were telling 
me just now before you realized that I had 
recognized you, and when you were hoping to 
play upon my clemency. But the evidence 
of the police was too strong for you, and the 
unhappy woman who stood in the dock with 
you was acquitQriqirifiht; police behaved very 
fairly so (jfflVftftffY WMTCttRffilf aad SllC 


2 5° 


left the court without a stain on her character. 
Everybody believed that she was innocent 
and that she did not know what she was 
doing when she attempted to get rid of those 
pearls. And so you got your deserts, and 
she was free. And, knowing this, you come 
here to" rob me and still further vilify the 
woman who behaved so loyally to you. In 
the face of all this you expect me to let you 
go. But not quite like that, Mr. Canton. 
I am working out a little revenge of my own, 
and when you realize how I am bringing it 
about, then I think I shall be satisfied. Now, 
have you anything more to say ? " 

Once more Canton looked round the room, 
once more he weighed up the chances of a 
struggle with the man who sat opposite him in 
the big ^arm-chair. But it was all useless, all 
so futile that he resigned himself in a sullen 
despair. What was the use of speaking, what 
w r as to be gained by an appeal to that grim- 
faced man with the merciless blue eyes who 
sat in the big chair opposite ? 

" You say nothing/' Broadley went on, 
" And so I had better finish my story. From 
time to time I helped Agnes, until you were 
free, and then I persuaded her to accept a 
certain sum of money at my hands and go 
abroad. You came back just about that 
time and robbed her of every penny she had. 
You robbed her and left her to starve. And 
she would have starved but for me ; though, 
mind you, I did not find out this till long 
afterwards, when she ivas dying of fever — 
dying alone and friendless in a little cottage 
in the country. It is nothing to you that I 
contracted that fever, and that, in one way, 
I have never been the same man since." 

Canton listened miserably enough, still 
with a desperate hope that something might 
happen in his favour, until presently he could 
hear the sound of wheels in the distance, and 
a car pulled up in front of the bungalow. 
Then there were voices in the hall, and a 
moment or two later the door of the library 
opened and a man in the uniform of a chauffeur 
came in. 

" Ah, here you are, Rufford," Broadley 
cried. " Did I hear Mr. Stern's voice ? " 

" Yes, sir," the man called Rufford said. 
" He has gone up to his bedroom to wash his 
hands. I told him as I was looking after 
you, and that supper would be ready in the 
dining-room directly he came down. But I 
beg your pardon, sir." 

" Oh, don't go away," Broadley went oiw 
" You are not intruding, Rufford. In fact, 
if you are quite ready, I want you to look 
after this visitor of mine. He is quite an 
involuntary guest, a kind of Autolycus — 
that is, Rufford, what you call a snapper-up 
of unconsidered trifles. In other words, a 
burglar, who found his way in through the 
window under the mistaken impression that 
the house was empty. We have been having 
quite an interesting chat, Rufford, and I find 
that the gentleman is an old acquaintance of 

" That's very clever of you, sir/' Rufford 
said. " You have had a narrow escape, I 

Canton listened dully. It struck him that 
Rufford's words concealed a certain cruel 

" Well, perhaps I have, Rufford," Broadley 
said. " But, then, appearances are decep- 
tive, and our friend here, fortunately, does 
not know as much as you and I. You had 
better take this fellow and tie him up and lock 
him in the larder. I believe there are iron 
bars to the window. Then you can telephone 
for the police, and keep an eye on the fellow 
till they come. And if he slips through your 
fingers, Rufford, I shall be exceedingly 
annoyed. I am not a vindictive man, as 
you know, but I have peculiar reasons so £ar 
as this scamp is concerned." 

" I think you can rely upon me, sir," Rufford 

•" I think I can. Is that Mr. Stern calling ? 
All right, Walter, I am coming. Go into 
the dining-room and wait for me, and 
we'll have some supper. I think that's alL 

" Very good, sir," Rufford replied. 

Broadley rose quietly from his chair and 
crossed the room slowly and deliberately, 
touching the back of a chair here and there 
until he felt his way out into the hall. It 
was all done so quietly and withal so cautiously 
that Canton for the moment hardly under- 
stood. Then understanding came to him as 
he turned with a sudden savage energy to the 
imperturbable Rufford. 

" What — what's the matter with him * 
he asked. 

" Didn't you know ? " Rufford repl . 
" He has been like that ever since an atta z 
of scarlet fever years ago. My master 5 

by Google 

Original from 

Zinklefoots Find. 


Illustrated by Frank Wriglit. 

ORE than ten thousand men, 
whose lives lost their savour 
through the attainment of 
something which they m had 
pursued for years, "have 
pointed out that the joy of 
pursuit is a thousand times 
greater than that of possession, preacher 
Zinklefoot recognized this when a black 
head rose from the mosaic of white faces in 
response to his call of " Henry Hutton." 
Zinklefoot suddenly discovered that he 
didn't want Hutton — he only wanted to look 
for him. 

His hunt for Hutton had commenced in a 
peculiar manner. Five years before, while 
addressing a revivalist meeting at Decatur, 
Tennessee, a white-haired woman" had asked 
the preacher to call the name of her wandering 
sen at every meeting he addressed. Zinklefoot 
promised. Quite unconsciously the woman 
lad provided him with a trump act for his 
oratorical turn. 

For the first few weeks after the duty had 
been put upon him, he told the story in as 
few words as possible, and called the name 
of the prodigal in a matter-of-fact way. Then 
the dramatic possibilities of the incident stirred 
him. He realized that he had a gem in his 
repertoire. He put in subtle touches. He 
braced the story with little pillars of pathos. 
With vivid oratorical flashes he pictured the 
waiting mother, and flung upon the minds of 
his audiences a picture of the storm-tossed 
pri ligal for whose return she waited. It was 
a i "ique turn. The telling of the incident, 
an :he solemn calling of the name, tore the 
en t off the little pools of sentiment in the 
he ts of his male listeners, and threw the 
wc n into hysterics. It was a grand climax 
to j orations. It left the crowds gasping, 
ho og, praying, and feeling well disposed 
to irds Zinklefoot, the unpaid scout of the 
wl i-haired mother of Decatur. 

And after five years of uninterrupted 
possession of this act that he had adapted 
and brought to perfection, the preacher saw 
it suddenly torn away from him, and the 
nightly kudos lost for ever. No wonder that 
the uprising of the black head chilled him. 
A hate for the stranger surged up within him. 
Instinctively he knew that here was the long- 
lost Hutton, and he also knew that the white- 
haired-mother story was gone for ever. 
• The black-headed man appeared at Wee- 
hawpville. Zinklefoot was winding up a 
successful meeting, and it was the moment 
for the " Henry Hutton " act. He advanced 
to the edge of the platform and waited till the 
smallest whispers had been choked by the 

" Friends," he cried, il some years ago when 
speaking at Decatur, Tennessee, a white- 
haired mother asked me to call the name 
of her wandering son at every meeting I 
addressed. She, poor woman, filled with 
maternal love — hungry motherly love — 
stored and gathered through the years, 
ready to be lavished upon the prodigal, 
thought that he might be guided to one 
of my meetings to hear her message. I 
promised her, and I have kept my promise. 
Night after night, year after year, over the 
broad breast of the Union I have called his 
name, listening, waiting, hoping always to 
hear the answering voice that will bring joy 
to the heart of the little white-haired woman 
in far-off Tennessee." 

The sound of suppressed sobs came from 
the audience, and Zinklefoot swept up the 
dizzy heights of oratory that he had built up 
before reaching the climax. The mother at 
Decatur shone out like a snowy-headed angel, 
and tears dropped upon the green grass as he 
thrilled his hearers with the story of her love 
and devotion. At last he straightened him- 
self and called the name of the prodigal. 

" Henry Hutton ! " The call went ringing 


*5 2 


through the right, and the listeners held their 
breath, l * Henry Hutton ! Henry-—" 

Z ink le foot's voice seemed to fall into a 
bottomless chasm as a black head rose ir, the 
centre of the crowd. The head Iiad the same 
effect upon him as a blow from a clenched 
fist, and he staggered. * 

11 I'm Henry Hutton of Decatur," said 
the man, stand* 

will not forget 
the scene that 
followed. The 
discovery of the 
prodigal was 
intensely d r a- 
matic, and, as 
the inhabitants 
of the town had 
few opportunities 
for letting them- 
selves go, -they 
seized upon the 
one made by 
Zi n kleloot. 
M e n struggled 
to get near the 
wanderer; w omen wept hysterically, Hutton 
was curried shoulder-high to the platform, and 
the preacher's commands for silence were lost 
in cheers and sobs. Women sobbed, men 
sobbed, and the prodigal sobbed. Only 
Zinklcfoot was calm, but Zinklef Dot's en- 
deavours to calm the others were unheeded. 
He had stirred a monster tidal wave of senti- 
ment that billowed around Hutton and left 
Zinklcfoot stranded on the cold stones of 
neplect. Instead of being the leading actor 
lie dropped back into the shade and stood 
there without a part* 

The genius who always discovers the 
psychological moment, discovered it at that 
instant in the interest of Henry Hutton. He 
may have been a friend of the prodigal, for 
Weehawpvillc was unsuccessful in locating 
him amongst its citizens on the following day, 
but over the tumult the genius announced 
that the wanderer would go back to th*> white- 
haired mother in Decatur at once if he Iiad 
the money for his fare, 

Weehawpvillc shouted the in formation , and 


then proceeded to demolish the little barrier 
that stood between the reunion of the white- 
haired mother and the long-lost son. Wet- 
haw pvi He was in a generous mood- Weehawp- 
villc had been tapped on its deepest vein of 
sentimentj and with cheers and sobs they 
proved that the ore was good* When slUnce 
was at last -restored the wanderer was 

stammering his 
thanks for the 
eighty -three 
dollars that liad 
been stuffed into 
the pockets of 
his ragged 
clothes. Then 
Weeh a w p v i 1 1 c 
sobbed again, and 
after carrying the 
stranger to an 
hotel the inhabi- 
tants went home, 
still sobbing as 
their imagina- 
tions pictured 
the meeting in 
far-off Tennessee, 

At daybreak next morning Prcaditr 
Zinklcfoot startkd the lodgers at the hotel by 
banging heavily at the front entrance, and 
when the annoyed landlord admitted him 
he yelled loudiy for the prodigal, 

" Left by the three o'clock train ," snapped 
the proprietor. 4I So anxious to see his old 
woman again/* 

Zinklefoot clung to the door. " Read— read 
that " he gasped. 

F l he landlord took the sheet of yellow paper 
and read aloud : — 

11 Zinklefoot, Weehawpville. 
£( Henry Hutton returned two years ago. 

Mother dead nine mcntlis. Your man 

evidently a fraud, 

'* Chief of Police, Decatur." 

The landlord stared at the distressed 
preacher. " If I was you," he said, solemnly, 
" 1 wouldn't show that to the crowd. They'll 
lynch you for putting the bait on the hook so 
that that swindler could do them/' 

But ZinkJe foot didn't hear the advice, He 
had fainted. 

by Google 

Original from 

r * 



to Play the Piano 


Some Common Mistakes and Some Advice. 


HEN a student comes to play 

to the artist with whom he 

desires to study, how often 

does he ask, when he has 

finished his performance : 

*' Master, what I really want 

you to tell me is, whether I 

have any very serious faults in my playing ? " 

Serious faults in his playing ! Poor fellow ! 

He nrohably has several which he has not 

yet „icovered himself and which most 

fikt — no one has ever drawn his atfention to. 

\ it , then, are some of the most common 

fau __, and at the same time some of the 

woi X of those which students of the piano 

ma fall into unsuspectingly through careless 

tuil ion ? Well, these are many and various, 

anc aw generally very difficult to eradicate. 

Mo WTOTj they beset the most talented players, 

jus mm ™jch as their less gifted brethren. 

To begin with, there is no more usual 
failing, or one mure damaging to good piano- 
playing, than too much use of the pedal, 
and its application in the wrong places. The 
pedal is really a very dangerous attraction 
to the inexperienced and yet enthusiastic 
performer. It is such an alluring temptation 
to hear the notes welling into one another, 
also the blur of sound produced by much 
pedalling covers up so many deficiencies 
of execution- There is fio doubt that the 
pedal carries with it a sort of special glamour 
of its own, so that even children when they 
first start' learning the piano are always 
clamouring to be allowed to play with the 
pedal. It is their greatest ambition. Yet 
had use of the pedal is quite capable of com- 
pletely marring the effect of what might 
otherwise be a fine rendering of a piece of 



but never to cover up, and should be regarded 
as a means for producing certain definite 
tone-effects and variations of tone-colour 
at precise moments, and not as a sort of 
general mist of hot vapour or steam by which 
each note, passage, and chord becomes 

Misuse of the pedal is a horrible fault, 
and can affect great and small alike ; it 
should be carefully guarded against. Indeed, 

of simultaneousness of sound the whole 
grandeur after which the performer is striving 
will be dispelled, in the irritating effect of 
one part of the harmony always reaching 
the ear at a slight interval after the other. 
This is a most frequent failing amongst very 
musical people who enjoy tremendously 
what they are playing ; and especially does 
it occur with them in slow movements, when 
they will arpeggio the chords between the 

Examples showing (above) an excerpt from the Prelude io C sharp minor of Rachmaninoff. «• written br the composer, and 

(below) as often pjayed by enthusiasts with the right hand striking each note in the first two bars a fraction after the Ml 

(See right-hand notes marked with an asterisk.) In the third bar of the lower example the chords will he seen arpeggioed 

instead of together, and again the right hand coming in after tr.e leit in the last two chords* 


the state it produces on the mind of* the 
listener is similar to that which overheated 
air creates in the lungs — namely,, fatigue, 
nausea, lassitude, and even, alas, drowsiness ! 
Now comes -along the temperamental 
student, burning with ardour for the beauty 
of the music, longing to make the noble 
chords of some fine melody speak out its 
message ! What special pitfall lies ready 
to entrap his zealous endeavours ? Why, 
in his enthusiasm that the melody in both 
hands should be properly brought out, he 
gets one hand playing after the other ! Only 
a fraction of a second after the left hand 
does the right hand strike, but in that loss 

two hands so much that it sounds to me like 
drawling in speech, or even like stuttering. 
'These enthusiasts lose their sense of the 
symmetry of the sound in their intense plea- 
sure over its component parts, and it is hard 
that the very virtue that lies in their love of 
the music can thus lead them into danger. 

Dragging the time, another tiresome error 
of judgment, proceeds generally from the 
same cause of over-rfervour. The player 
who suffers from this blemish mostly owes 
it to a lack of sense of proportion and taste, 
and to a certain want of artistic perception 
of the guiding line between true sentiment 
and sentimentality. 





Harrying the tempo is 
nearly as bad. and is some- 
times caused by nervous- 
ness, though indifference, 
want of confidence, and 
the very general mistake 
«jl looking upon a crescendo 
as an accellerando, aiso 
give rise to it. People who 
are inclined to be nervous 
when playing before others 
n get a queer kind of 
defiant sensation when . technically difficult 
passages hover in sight ; the " let's get It over 
and be done with it " sort of feeling, which 
makes them hurry in an extraordinary 
•tanner. Of course j hurrying may just as well 
arise from a lack ol instinct for rhythm in the 
student. Where this is the case, it is rather 

hopeless look-out, as it is so hard to inculcate 

real feeling for rhythm into someone who 
not naturally endowed with it- But it 
often been my experience to listen to 
ents who were gifted with a most highly- 
.developed sense of rhythm, and yet who 
hurried, especially over their technically 
difficult passages, until I began to get posi- 
tively breathless. This kind of increasing 
1he speed was, of course, due to want of 
nervous control. 

As hurrying and also dragging the tempi 
ire both errors connected somewhat with 
faulty Rhythm f I will speak of this next as 
1 highly unsatisfactory failing. Rhythm 
is no doubt to a great extent instinctive, 
and is bound up a good deal with individual 
temperaments. But it must be carefully 
developed by teaching and analysis, for 
too much emphasis can never be bestowed 
upon giving even' note in 
music its proper value, 
apart from any other 
rhyt hroical consi dc ra t i on . 
For rhythm in piano- play- 
ing is so essential a factor 
in obtaining a good tone- 
production, that it is 
imperative to cultivate 
it with great attention to 
cor .ctness of outline. 
J-« : of rhythm, or faulty 

V thm, will take all 

ia fccter from a musical 
per jrmance, and will 
lea; e an impression of 
insi ridity and monotony 
*h re there is no 
rhy im, and of irrita- 

n -* u ere the rhythm 



is inexact, as the case 
may be. 

Close on the heels of bad 
rhythm comes the weakness 
of always using the seme 
kind *>j tone while perform- 
ing. Plenty of variation 
of tone - colour is abso- 
lutely necessary to inspired 
and interesting playing on 
the piano, as, indeed, on all 
On the piano it is more difficult to arrive 
at than on the stringed or even the wind 
instruments, and needs much study of the 
technic of touch* For frequently we cannot 
understand, after coming out from a concert, 
why what we appreciated as a really fine 
perform;,! m t: of a musical work had not 
arrested our attention more, or aroused 
keener pleasure. A certain sense of monotony 
or dullness had crept over us while listtning, 
Such a feeling, or rather want of feeling,, 
is almost always the result of the per- 
former's failure to grasp the possibilities 
of his instrument in relation to tone-colour. 
Everything he plays is in a similar hue 
of tone, therefore a- sameness and l::ck 
of life and contrast pervades the whole. 
It is a strange anomaly that the more beau- 
tiful is the touch of the pianist by natural 
instinct, the more is he apt to fall into the 
fault of using it indiscriminately in the samo 
strength, because he takes so much personal 
pride and pleasure in it. It is like the 
of singers who are gifted with wonderful 
top notes, and, therefore, are always in- 
clined to warble them forth in full t i:t 
monotonous volumes' of sound. 

There are other serious 
faults which hamper 
pianists, pertaining more 
to purely technical 
matters. Such is, for in- 
stance, sticking out the 
thumbs instead of always 
keeping it ready under- 
neath the palm of the 
hand in order to facilitate 
its rapid passage during 
the changes of position on 
the keyboard. This is an 
important affair ? as if this 
sticking out of the thumb is 
not checked, it will impede 
the technical perfection of 
passage-playing and cause 
ritollf «»'kward, heavy, 




Keeping the elbows out is a trick that many 
fall into, which is both unsightly and detri- 
mental to tone-production, because it forces 
the hand into unnatural positions, and stiffens 
the wrists, as well as impairs rapidity and 
suppleness of execution. The ideal position 
which must be acquired at the outset of learn- 
ing to play is to sit at a medium distance 
from the instrument, with the chair placed 
exactly in front of the middle of the keyboard. 
The hands should be arched into a kind of 
cup-like shape, with the knuckles protruding, 
the wrists held slightly below the keys, and 
the elbows kept close in to the body, as shown 
ill the diagram (Fig< 2). 

Any deviation from the above position, 
which is the easy and nattyal one at the 
instrument, is bound to be injurious to 

Excessive movement of the body, too, while 
playing, is disturbing to the sight, and to the 
player's power of elasticity, yet it is a bad 
habit which is much indulged in. No doubt it 
seems to help people to intensify what they are 
feeling, but this is an illusion. Exaggerated 
gesture, on the contrary, tends rather to 
diminish an impression which might otherwise 
be deep, and weakens it, by a suggestion of 
hysteria, while too frequently* it borders on 
the ridiculous, in which case the impression 
is altogether lost. Movements of the body while 
playing can be divided into two classes — 
namely, jerky movements (generally confined 
to the head and shoulders), which produce 
stiffness and tension, and swaying movements 
of the whole frame, which disturb the rhythm. 

Some players pick up the peculiarity of 
making extraordinary faces during their per- 
formance of music. This is a very absurd 
fault, but it too often becomes a habit that 
is terribly hard to get rid of, because it is 
done quite unconsciously as a rule, and is also 
instigated by a desire to express the maximum 
of emotion, and sometimes provoked by 
the physical exertion necessary for the per- 
formance of a technical feat. The only remedy 
for " making faces " is to have a mirror hung 
in front of the culprit whenever he is 

And how about the student who loves his 
right hand better than his left ? He seems to 
follow the Bible maxim of not letting his right 
hand know what his left hand is doing, chiefly 

by Google 

because his left hand is not doing much at all ! 
By this I mean that it is bad to neglect the 
left hand } which is generally the weaker mem- 
ber anyhow, and not to allow it to develop 
its bass parts and fundamental notes with 
just as much significance and sonority as the 
more obvious work of the right hand. Of 
course, the left hand should never be per- 
mitted to drown the right hand, but it should 
sustain and harmoniously support it. Want 
of proper consideration and indifference to 
the bass writing of a piece is a most unmusical 
mistake, as it destroys the structure of the 
whole work. Still, it is one of the most every- 
day failings amongst students. 

Young players also err very often by ineoffeel 
style in their performance of different kind? . 
of music. Bach cannot be played with" ' 
the highly-coloured romantic passion which 
should pervade renderings of Schumann or 
Tschaikovsky, nor with the weird ethereal 
atmosphere that surrounds the music of the 
modem French school. Music approached 
thus in a totally false appreciation of its 
spirit becomes merely caricature. Yet I have 
had Chopin played to me with all the dryness 
and precision of the most pedantic classical 
manner, and Bach distorted with rubato and 
unnatural limelight effects. 

It is perhaps disheartening to think that 
there are so many pitfalls lurking for the 
pianist in every direction, but there remains 
always this consoling reflection, that the man , 
of real genius, even when he suffers from every 
one of the faults mentioned here, will not 
thereby be prevented from still being a great' 
player. These deficiencies of detail are only 
grave hindrances to the commonplace ability 
which has no divine fire to sustain it. And 
when all is said and done, each individual 
possesses the right to hope that the spark of 
genius which palliates so many evils may lie 
in him too, if only it can be discovered. 
I well remember L^schetitzky, the greatest 
of pianoforte teachers, finishing up his lessons 
to his dejected pupils, after telling them in his 
most forceful manner of all their heinous faults, 
with the following exhortation: " I would say 
nothing, gentlemen, of the manner in which 
you play, if only the result was a satisfyi 5 
one. You may play with your feet upon 1 e 
keyboard if only it sounds well, but rememl r 
they must be talented feet." 

Original from 

1 he Temporary Heir. 


Illustrated by Warwick Reynolds. 


Captain <Ezra Ames dies in his cabin on a lonely South Sea island where he has been pearl -fishing, With 
him is Hendricks, a young American sailor. On the shore and pn his schooner in the harbour are Wilks, 
an old sea-captain whose wife "Killer" Ames has stolen and whose spirit the dominating Ames has 
crushed ; Peterson, who has been Ames' lieutenant ; and a crew of Kanakas. Before he dies, Ames gives - 
to Hendricks a bag of pearls and the address of a. girl in San Francisco and asks him to take her the legacy. 
Hendricks agrees, and feels he must carry out his promise even when he finds the pearls have lost their 
lustre — that is. are "dead." Hendricks does not tell the other white men, who are drunk, of " Killer" 
Ames's death; instead he informs them that Ames has ordered them to sail for Honolulu next day. During 
the night Hendricks smuggles Ames's body aboard. And with the tide the schooner departs for Honolulu. 
The alcohol in Wilks' s brain inflames his old passion for revenge; sneaking to Ames's cabin, he drives a 
knife into "Killer's" body and believes he has caused his death. Later he kills Peterson and (Hendricks 
humouring him) assumes command of the ship— old Captain Wilks, freed from domination, has become a 
man once more ! The schooner reaches Honolulu ; and Wilks, thirsting to rehabilitate his reputation as 
a man among the men of the South Seas, abandons the schooner to Hendricks and goes ashore, where in 
various drinking dens he arouses suspicion by reporting: "Well, well 1 Ames is dead and gone, but look 
who's here — Captain Billy Wilks." Hendricks arrives in San Francisco — where the port officials, having 
heard by cable that Wilks has babbled of Ames's murder, confine Hendricks aboard his ship pending an 
investigation. Hendricks escapes, and with the pearls in his belt goes to find Susan Mathews, legatee of 

"Killer" Ames. 

Part II. 

ENDRICKS went up the broad 
low steps to the -great bronze 
doors with an awkwardness due 
to long habit in leaping up 
ships' ladders with their steep 
treads. When the door opened he 
inquired of a staid man-servant 
if Miss Mathews was at home. 
jThe man nodded slightly, but said nothing. 
Hendricks found himself surprised that he had 
the right address. But he recovered quickly 
and said : " Will you. tell her it's Captain Hen- 
dricks calling ? From Captain Ames, please." 

Hendricks entered arid was ushered promptly 
into a little room off the reception-hall. It 
was bare and evidently a place of business. He 
began to feel that very likely his errand was 
to be purely a cold, matter-of-fact transaction 
without a tinge of romance to it. Then the heavy 
curtain across the doorway was lifted quickly, 
and he was face to face with a young woman 
uho was saying, " Is this the gentleman from 
C iptain Ames ? " in a low tone. 

" I'm Captain Hendricks," he answered. 
" Captain Ames asked me to call." 
" Yes ? " she suggested. 

ffe looked at her and flushed. She was a 
t \, well-made girl, dressed in a style that set 
o to advantage a fine figure and carriage ; she 
v is extremely handsome, with an expressive 
a d whimsical mouth. But her eyes were as 
c 11 as a mountain lake. 

To Hendricks it seemed as if everything he 

Vol lir.-17. 

had experienced in his life of many vicissitudes 
was commonplace beside meeting such a woman ; 
he had not known that the world he had left so 
many years ago held such distinctive and splendid 
• figures. He felt out of his element and shy, 
but came straight to the point. 

"Ames didn't have much time to explain 
matters to me," he said, staring at his own rough 
hands. " He died very suddenly." 

In the stillness he slowly raised his eyes, 
wondering why she did not speak. He saw her 
face, and its expression baffled him. Was it 
possible that she did not understand ? Of 
course, such as she would care little for a rough 
customer like Ames ; bu,t surely she would be 
surprised — disappointed, maybe. And what was 
thut strange look on her face ? 

Presently she rose, turned away, and went 
to the window. She stood there in immobility, 
without speaking. Hendricks began to fear 
that he had really hurt her ; it might be that she 
liked 'Ames — or was a relative. 

" He never spoke of you," she said, at last. 

" Quite likely," he admitted, much relieved 
that she wasn't offended at him. " We weren't 
intimate. But when he died I was with him, 
and I couldn't do much less than listen to his 
last wishes, could I ? There was no one else." 

" Then he sent a message ? " 

" No. He died suddenly, unexpectedly to 
himself, I think, Miss Mathews. By chance 
I was with him when he was taken ill. He 

realized ^VfeWOTCiftr^' *** 



me to bring his vessel and other things to San 
Francisco to you." 

She turned her face to him, and he perceived 
that she was very calm. " The schooner, you 


1 What else ? 

Hendricks slipped one hand into a side pocket 
and drew out the cigarette-case, " They are 
in this/' he said, offering it. 

She glanced at the tarnished silver and then 
met Hendricks's eyes. " And he — he told you 
no tiling about me^' 

" He never mentioned your name m the i\\*> 
years that t knew him/* he replied. 
" He died at sea ? " 

"On shore, on an island in the Stranger 

** YVhcre were the rest ? ", she demanded, 
" Weren't they there too ? " 

" The others ? " he said, blankly, "Only 
a couple of white men — -Wilks and Peterson.'* 

She shook her head slightly. "They -they 
knew lie died ? " Before he could answer, 
she had taken the case; he saw her slender 
lingers tremble over it- Then she looked up 
at him, and he saw growing distress in her eyes 
that had been so cold. He was embarrassed, 
but stammered a reply* 

" They — they didn't know/' he said. 
Now she was facing him with an intense 
expression of pain on her face, mingled with one 
of dread- Hl Are you sure — are you certain — 
that he is— not alive — still ? M 

Hendricks suddenly was aware 
that she cared terribly. After 
all, she hoped ! He perceived the 
tragedy of it ah, and bowed his 
head, " I was with him when he 
died," he responded, in a low 
tone. " I believe that is all The 
schooner is over at quarantine and, 
from what I understand, there is 
some irregularity in the papers, 
something done against port regu- 
lations. I thought best to leave 
secretly and come to you imme- 
tliately, I thought possibly you 
might not — possibly you wouldn't 
care to be mixed up — in an 
irregular affair." 

r< What was it ? " ehe asked 

" I'm not sure. From what was 
hinted, I think Wilks— an old 
fellow who didn't like Captain 
Ames —spread some foolish report 
in Honolulu." 

" About my husband ? ,# 
" Your husband ? " he repeated, 
in a puzzled tone, 

** Captain Ames/' she answered, 
He forced Imriself to look at 
her still face. He was bitterly 
disappointed — just why he did not 
know. So this was the mystery 
in the life of Killer Ames 1 His 
wife ! For the first time he under- 
Stood a little of the enormous 
growth which springs from the 

root of a single tragedy. Why hadn't someone 
killed Ames before he had accomplished the 
vilest act of his despicable existence ? It was 
incredible that he should have been su tiered to 
crown his bestial villainy by winning the heart 
of the splendid girl who now stood silent and 
tearless in this Jittle bare room on Steiner Street 
"If I had known/' he muttered, "or 
suspected " 




BAE - 




She nodded slightly ; then, as if to spare him 
further pain at his T blunt breaking of such news, 
she murmured : "I got a divorce long ago. 
Our marriage was a mistake." She paused a 
moment and then continued : 4 * lie never 
mentioned me ? " 

" Never* Even at the last he said no name 
—merely told me I should find an address in 
the log-book/' 

She sighed. " It was like him. If he had 
set his mind on a thing being so, lie never admitted 
that it was not so, even to himself. It was 
like him to write duwn the address of the one 
woman who — who hated him, and let the world 
think she loved him." 

Hendricks drew a long breath. " 1 hated 
him/ J lie said, quietly. 

" Exactly. And yet he knew yon would come 
all these thousands of 
miles on a useless errand, 
just as if you were his 
warmest friend and 
would do anything for 
him. Yon obeyed him, . 
even against your will ! " 
fl I suppose so P " Hen- 
dricks replied, hesitat' 
ingly. " Ames was a 
man used to having 
what he wanted. But 
in this case I merely 
did the decent thing, 
nothing more." 

"I'm glad he sent 
you and not— one of 
his friends/' she said, 

They stood in silence, 
sharing an intimacy for 
a moment, neither one 
free to say more than 
had been said. Mrs* 
Ames (or Miss Mathews) 
presently opened the 
cigarette-case, without 
haste. As she looked at 
its contents, Hendricks 
was amazed to see her 
fine eyes grow misty- 
two tears flow down her 

" Ah ! " she breathed. 
"Pearls! And like 
everything else he ever 
won, they died in his 
possession. It was hU 
fate, wasn't it ? — to 
kill what he loved;" 

if I don't think he 
knew they w e r e — 
spoiled,'* he ventured, 

She looked at him 
through suffused eyes, 
11 How could he help 
knowing ? Yet — it is 
like him t to send them 
as if they were precious. 
It is lug message tu me. 11 
She cried softly a 
little, while Hendricks 
stared into vacancy, 
unwillingly seeing again 
the austere figure of 
Killer Ames, dying in a 
AND its Exr^Steklietoa I fro ITTough shanty on a desert 

UNIVERSITYOF WICRlG^T-J 1 ^ 111 ^^ 1 ^ 1 pcarls 




as a last legacy to the woman he loved. A 
message ? Possibly she was right, and Ames 
had spoken no word of farewell at the end of 
his lawless life, but had, stubbornly silent, still 
seen to it that she received the sum of his rapine 
and robbery — lustreless, valueless nacre. 

There was nothing to say under such circum- 
stances. His errand was done. He stepped 
back and laid one hand on the curtain. Mrs. 
Ames looked at him for a moment, and her 
stormy eyes bade him farewell. Feeling that 
every second that he remained put him more 
firmly in the position of the bearer of a taunt 
and an insult, he passed out. 

The cabman drew the blanket off his horse 
and whispered, huskily. "Where now, sir? 
Downtown ? " 

Hendricks glanced down at the bay below the 
hill, glimmering in the last rays of the setting 
sun. He was a stranger, with no place to go. 

" The ferry," he said, at a venture. 

Back amid the throng of home-going folks, 
he realized that very likely he was in quest by 
the authorities for liis lawless evasion from the 
schooner, and passed through the first gate, 
buying a ticket without asking whither it would 
take him. He found himself on the Sausalito 
boat. As good as any ! 

That night George Hendricks signed his full 
name - for the first time in two years — twice. 
When he had registered and been shown to a 
room high up in the rambling hotel on the hill 
above the bay, he opened the worn leather belt 
and extracted the old draft for two thousand 
dollars, which had been given him as payment 
tor a cargo of curios landed in Sydney, and en- 
dorsed it. As he did so, it occurred to him again 
that Killer Ames must have been struck with 
some qualms over the fashion in which he had 
obtained the money, and put the paper aside 
tor further consideration. 

" At any rate," he thought, "I'm not broke. 
Gottal will cash it for me." He recalled the 
alert, nervous figure of the ship-broker who 
had financed his early voyages. Gottal was a 
good sort— a crank on queer curios, a little prone 
to preening himself over his connoisseurship, 
but a readily kind man and understanding 
the oddities of human nature almost as well 
as he did the queer things in which he dealt. 
He had picked up Hendricks in a pawnshop, 
where the bargain was over a sextant. Their 
conversation had been brief and to the point. 

" I beg pardon," Gottal had said, after a 
moment's impatient listening to the pawnbroker's 
eulogy of the battered instrument ; "I have 
a better sextant at my office. Captain." 

Hendricks remembered distinctly the respect- 
ful way in which the man behind the counter 
had- nodded and withdrawn the offered article 
with an apologetic smile. " Ah, Mr. Gottal ! " 
he had said, shaking his head, " you have spoiled 
a bargain for this young man." 

" Nonsense ! " Gottal had answered, eurtly. 
" He knows better than to take that thing. 
Come on, Captain ; we'll go to my office." 
Then he had turned to the broker with a brief, 
" Keep your eyes open for what I asked you 

for, Levi," and led the way out on Kearney 

" My place is on Commercial/' he had said* 
and tfiey walked silently down to a small dusty 
office on that street. 

" Here's the sextant, Captain," the ship- 
broker had said, handing down a case. 

" Brand new," Hendricks had commented. 

" Sure. What ship have you ? " 

" None. Going as mate of the Mercy Fellows/' 

" Nonsense ! Go skipper of the Bertie Minor 9 
my schooner — Papua." 

" Rum folks, the Papuans," Hendricks had 

" You'll go ? " 

" Sure," said Hendricks. 

He had made three voyages in the vessel. 
A nice packet she was, too ! he thought. And 
he had left her only when Gottal had announced 
that he had sold her, with the dry remark : 
" She's getting too well "known in the South 
Seas. I'll pick up an Eastern craft pretty soon, 
Hendricks. Wait a month or two." 

The event was that Hendricks had grown 
weary of waiting and shipped West on a steamer 
after a farewell call on Gottal, who had shaken 
his head and snapped : "All right 4 You'll 
be around this way some time. I'll have some- 
thing for you." 

So now Hendricks said to himself that he 
must see Gottal and ask for the " something ** 
promised so long ago. He could explain to the 
broker a good many things about Killer Ames 
which few others would understand. Also 
Gottal would square matters with the autho- 

At this point Hendricks's thoughts travelled 
back over the afternoon's events. He saw 
himself entering the big mansion on the hill 
and asking for Miss Mathews. He felt again 
the thrill he had experienced when she had ap- 
peared, so beautiful and so cold, so exquisite 
and so fine. Then there was his own blunder 
in telling outright of Ames's death and his sub- 
sequent amazement at finding he was speaking 
to the Killer's wife. Well, who* could have 
suspected it ? A big house, servants at the door 
— no one would have dreamed of finding Ames's 
wile in such surroundings. 

Suddenly Hendricks went to the window of 
his little room and stared out on the bay, starred 
with scattered lights. A new thought had struck 
him. One certainly did grow ignorant down 
under the Equator ! He had naturally taken 
it for granted that Miss Mathews was the mistress 
of the Steiner Street house. Why ? Merely 
because she had looked it. But she could n 
have been, especially in view of the fact th 
she had received him in what was evidently 
bare business office. She was a maid, a servar 
And this explained a tremendous amount — 1 
quietness, her restrained manner, her appart 
dread of becoming exeked by his news. S 
was a servant, ai-raid of disturbing her mist re 
or intruding her own arlairs into a househc 
which knew her impersonally. 

This settled to bis sjatisf action, he deck" 

that h<2 hadn't doner aft ."that * was necessa 
U Ptrv lR3I IT Ur ml LTTmM y\ 



Very possibly Mrs. Ames had no male relatives 
at hand. She was undoubtedly without money, 
except what she earned in her menial capacity. 
Ames was a brute, anyway, sending worthless 
pearls to a wile who had had to go to work to 
support herself. No wonder she had shown 
dread at the thought of not having even an 
absent husband from whom to hope ior help. 

At first he decided to write Miss Mathews a 
letter, assuring her of his intent to help her. 
Then this seemed a poor way to do the thing ; 
anyway, how was he to get an answer ? With 
the police hunting for him, as he had little doubt 
they were, he must be on the move. Why not 
go and see her again ? 

He was up and on his return to San Francisco 
by breakfast- time. He had mentally arranged 
the day's programme and doggedly started out 
as he had planned. His first call was on Gottal, 
for "whom he had to wait an hour. The broker 
shook hands without expressing surprise and 
led the way into a Small inner room. 

" I take it you are the chap who killed Captain 
Ames," Gottal said, briefly. 

" No such luck/' Hendricks returned, handing 
over the draft. " I brought his old packet 
up to the coast after he died down on one of 
the Strangers." 

" This draft is more'n two years old," the 
broker continued, examining the paper. 

'"Sure. I didn't have any need for the coin." 

" Lucky man. I suppose you want me to cash 
it ior you, when the police are looking for you ? " 

" Yes," Hendricks replied. " Let 'em look. 
i didn't kill Ames." 

" Who did ? " 

" Nobody. He was struck with paralysis. 
Died in an hour/' 

Gottal frowned. ' ' But you skipped away 
from the Empress without waiting for leave." 

'" Of course I did," Hendricks responded. 
" The fools ! Everybody knows what an 
ass old Wilks is. When I heard that he was 
yarning down in Honolulu, I saw that there 
was no use arguing the matter. I had business 
ashore and I came ashore." 

"Exactly," the broker assented. "And now 
they think you're the murderer. It's jail for 
you if they catch you." 

" No chance," Hendricks boasted. " Just 
let me have that cash and settle up a little affair 
here and I'm off again. They'll find out quick 
enough that Papa Wilks was drunk and didn't 
know what he was talking about." 

Gottal refused to lose his serious 'demeanour. 
" You are in great danger of your neck, my dear 
i r," he expostulated. " I'll give you the money 
j id carry the draft till some English advices 
i »me in and cash it with them, as if I had got 

from London. But — may I ask what this 
■ ttle affair ' is ? " 

' About Ames's wife," Hendricks returned. 

1 Ahem ! I didn't know he had one." 

" It seems he did. And she's helpless, and 

m going to help her get her rights. I don't 
aow that there's much for her in the whole 
ntfit, from what I've seen of it. But she's 

titled to what there is." 

" Have you known her long ? " inquired 
the broker* darting his eyes at everything on his 
desk as if in quest of a morsel of common sense 
to be instantly offered his visitor. 

" Never knew there was a Mrs.. Ames till 
yesterday." Hendricks briefly explained the 
events which had led to his being almost thrust 
into the position of executor of the Killer's 
last will and testament. " So," he concluded, 
" I looked up the address in the old man's log- 
book and went ashore during the night and next 
day called on Susan Mathews." 

Gottal stiffened in his chair. " What name ? ,f 

"Susan Mathews," Hendricks repeated. " At 
4847, Steiner Street." 

"You're crazy, Captain," the broker announced, 
dogmatically. " Do you know who Miss Susan 
Mathews is ? " 

" I do," was the curt reply. " It's nothing 
against her that she married Ames. In fact, 
she got a divorce. And because she works 
for her living up in that big house merely means 
that she's too proud to live off that brute's 
money — if he has any, which I doubt ! " 

Gottal laughed queerly, stared at his caller 
a moment, and then pushed the button for a 
clerk, who poked his head in questioningly. 

"Maury, go to the bank and get me two 
thousand dollars in gold, small gold," came the 
command. When the clerk had vanished, 
Gottal swung on Hendricks. " I've got a 
schooner * loaded for Midway Island, Captain. 
You can have her, if you'll sail to-night;" 

" Thanks ! " Hendricks replied, stiffly. " I 
may take you up this afternoon." 

" Why not this morning ? " 

" I've got to go up and see Miss — Mrs. Ames 
again, on Steiner Street." 

" She — she told you she was a maid there ? " 
Gottal asked, quietly. 

" No. But she must be, from all that I saw. 
Naturally, she isn't boasting of "having been 
Ames's wife. She goes by the name of Miss 
Susan Mathews." 

" She does, does she ? Well, young man, 
my offer holds good till this afternoon — if you 
aren't in jail before that time. And, if I were 
you, I'd just keep quiet about Miss— er — Mrs. 
Ames. Your story sounds all right to me, 
but then ! I'm famous for believing things 
that aren't so. Here comes your money. You'll 
need it." 

Hendricks stowed the heavy mass of coin 
into his pockets without counting it. Then 
he shook hands with the broker. 

As Hendricks opened the door the broker 
followed him to say, in a low voice : "If I can 
be of any service to — er — Miss Mathews, I'll 
gladly act. But quietly, of course ! " 

" Understood ! " Hendricks agreed and de- 

Gottal sat alone in his office for a long period, 
staring at the dusty ceiling. Then he picked 
up the morning papers, and carefully read the 
brief news about the arrival of the Empress, 
the secret escape of her unknown skipper, and 
the cabled dispatch from Honolulu stating that 

i4 had simffls^rtitsifflW 1 Ames had 



been slain at sea and his body thrown overboard 
while the mutineers sailed the schooner to 
Honolulu, but took fright there and set sail 
again, leaving on shore the single passenger. 
Captain W. Wilks, who was very ill, but had 
intimated enough about the tragedy to warrant 
the officials in instituting a sea- wide search 
for the alleged murderer, one Hendricks, who 
was also charged with slaying Ames's loyal mate, 
Peterson. The papers ended their stories with 
the statement that the authorities were convinced 
that it had been Hendricks who had brought 
the Empress into San Francisco. 

" A pretty muddle ! " groaned Gottal. " And 
of all the people in the world to be mixed up in 
it — Susan Mathews ! " 

Later he addressed his clerk : " Maury, the 
Orchis will sail to-night. The man you saw 
in my office will take her. Don't make the 
transfer of masters at the Custom House till I 
tell you. And don't breathe a word about any- 
thing to anybody ! Not a blessed word ! " 

" / know that was Hendricks," Maury replied, 
in an aggrieved tone. 

" The deuce you do ! " was the tart reply. 
" But there are a million things you don't know 
and never shall." 

Presently Gottal again spoke to Maury. " By 
the way, if you happen to be sure that a thing 
isn't so, for Heaven's sake don't tell it. Ten to 
one it's exactly the fatal truth." 

Hendricks arrived before the Steiner Street 
house in mid -afternoon. When he rang the 
bell the same man-servant received him — but 
this time ushered him into a room quite differ- 
ently furnished from the one he remembered 
as the scene of his first interview with Miss 
Mathews. A bright coal fire was in the grate, 
and various articles about showed that it was 
intimately tenanted by a woman. Almost 
before he had determined to seat himself, Mrs. 
Ames came in. 

" I expected you," she said, quietly. " I 
thought you wouldn't be afraid to come." 

" No," he answered. " Why should I ? " 

" Didn't you see the papers ? " she demanded. 
" There is trouble oyer the Empress. They 
say my — Captain Ames was murdered with his 
mate, and that you have fled." 

" That's old Papa Wilks talking down in 
Honolulu," Hendricks answered, flushing hotly. 
" I told you that there seemed to be trouble 
over some irregularity in the ship's papers. 
That was why 1 came ashore right away to see 

" Then you didn't see either to-day's or yes- 
terday's newspapers ? " 

" I "did not. Too busy — not interested, 

" Tell me exactly what, happened," she said, 
briefly, sitting down. 

At this Hendricks glanced around him in 
some perplexity. " I will. W 7 on't someone 
disturb us here — the people of the house ? " 

She shook her head impatiently. " Please 
go on." 

" It's not a long story. I wonder whether 
you could understand it." 

" If you mean can I understand somebody 
wanting to kill Captain Ames — I may reply 
that I was his wife — for three months." 

" If you will listen, I'll tell you all about it," 
he answered, earnestly. " As I told you, Ames 
took my schooner away from me by getting me 
into Dutch waters and then leaving me to fight 
it out with a Dutch gunboat. I was in forbidden 
seas, and as I had pearls and shells aboard which 
I couldn't have proved came from unforbidden 
regions, I stood to be captured and imprisoned. 
Then Ames came along and offered to save me 
from prison if I turned everything over to him. 
I did. He left me broke, with the choice of 
starving or* joining him. I took the easiest way 
out of a bad mess, and went with him, though 
I gave him to understand that I didn't consider 
him above the level of a robber." 

" I beg your pardon," said Miss Mathews, 
" but